


Ethereal

by TheCourtJester485



Series: Ethereal [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (but not between the ship), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst and Humor, Author Will Graham, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Coffee Shops, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Palace, Mild Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Protective Will Graham, Romantic Fluff, Sassy Will Graham, Secrets, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Tags May Change, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, Will Graham Being Will Graham, coffee shop owner Hannibal, dark themes, my original work please don't reupload to another site, slow burn twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: Attempting to move on from his past, Will Graham moves to Baltimore while struggling to write his second book. One night a friend introduces him to illustrious coffee-shop owner, Hannibal Lecter, and soon a connection is made.As the two grow closer, their bond more intimate, a dark secret lurks in the shadows, something that could shatter their world like a fragile teacup should Will ever learn of Hannibal's truth...Perhaps some coffee is in order?
Relationships: Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz & Jimmy Price & Brian Zeller, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Ethereal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795459
Comments: 18
Kudos: 119





	1. Petty Irritations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanging above, he studies a vast assortment written in chalk on a 10ft long blackboard; all thought of needing to make a decision instantly returns to the forefront. A lengthy pause fills the shop instead, bewilderment quickly fogging his brain by the amount on offer.  
> “Ah–”  
> The man, Hannibal, bows his head in understanding. A single laugh passes gently through his nose, “A rather intimidating selection, is it not?”  
> Will grunts, “I don’t… I haven’t got a damn clue what any of these are to be honest...”  
> “Take comfort in knowing you aren’t the first to say so. May I recommend something? I can bring it over to where you’ll be seated.”  
> Wide eyed and lost, he just agrees–most of them sound closer to unknowing luxury rather than a simple drink so it’s probably the safest bet. The man turns on his heels and promptly gets to work, asking them to find a table.

“My friend, if you could overdose on stupidity alone, you would’ve died at age three,” Jimmy says shaking his head, “two and a half, realistically.”

Brian Zeller’s face idles in confusion, mouth hanging open while he processes, “Wait, wait… all I said was the guy’s prescription needs–”

“ _Jesus_ , you’re insufferable...”

Beverly stomps over to them, “Give em’ 500mg of Tylenol.” she orders, dropping a small red box on the counter in front of them with a short-lived rattle, “Do you two ever agree on anything?”

They turn their heads to one another, then back at Beverly; unsurprisingly both of them say,

“ _No._ ”

Now it’s her turn to shake her head. There’s no doubt she’s always enjoyed working with these two, hell, they’ve been friends for years and as a trio they often make a great team. But _damn_ could they be irritating at times... At least there’s one person here that doesn’t make her want to turn in her resume: that being Will Graham, or just Graham as she tends to call him at work.

Presently, he’s working himself around the various stands and prescription drugs that lay boxed and shelved in a multitude of categorise, gripping his concentration as if he were solving the worlds most monotonous puzzle. He doesn’t partake in the quarrel nor attempt to dissolve it like Beverly has, instead keeping his mouth shut and staying out it.

A plain, teal basket hangs over the inside of his elbow, veering on empty from restocking. He reads each label carefully in his head to order them correctly, side stepping to different parts of the shelf every now and then, _Anti-sceptic, Aspirin, Buscupan... whatever_ _the hell_ _this other one i_ _s._

“Graham,” he stops at Gauze, regarding a weary Beverly Katz from over his shoulder, “could you help me with something round back?”

“Sure, yeah.”

He abandons the basket beneath the counter to follow her. Jimmy and Brian’s squabble continues in the distance. They aren’t really arguing, he knows. Last week, and much to Beverly’s amusement, he described them as resembling an old married couple constantly scoring points against each other by finding _something_ , no matter how _minute_ , to dissect from one another's words when work grows dull.

Even Beverly toyed with the idea that they plan their disagreements ahead of time.

Probably.

Compared to Will, Jimmy Price especially loves his job a little too much. Often going out of his way to out-think and out-talk Brian Zeller a great many times throughout the day; he knows better than to try that with Will Graham, mind you. Trying to argue with him is like talking back to your older brother or sister – most of the time, they know how to shut you up by simply _looking_ at you.

They stop walking to stand by the fire exit. Beverly pushes down the bar grip, cracking open the door to let some air in. She inhales, brushing the hair away from her face she says, “Thank god shifts almost over. Hey, what're your plans afterwards?”

He hums in thought, letting his hands slip comfortably inside the pockets of his slacks. “Not much. I’m still trying to get this chapter written up.”

“Seventeen? You’ve been working on that one for what, three weeks?” her brow raises, “How ‘bout this, come grab a coffee with me and talk me through it. Maybe I can help.”

He scoffs, “Nice of you to offer but it’s eight-thirty, Bev. I doubt any-where's open.”

“I know this late-night coffee shop a couple blocks away. The guy that owns it does the best coffee for miles. Y’can’t fault it.”

At the very mention of the sacred word that is ‘coffee’ his brain does a double take, _Christ knows I need a pick-me-up..._ he thinks, his muscles de-tensing slightly.

Today has been _beyond_ trying for Will – fucking frustrating to the point of wanting to quit would be more accurate upon reflection.

Where does he even start?

A woman came in during the afternoon for something to help against acid reflux, only to insist Will was recommending the wrong tablets (despite admitting she didn't know what kind she needed), then her five year old son swung his teddy bear at the _very_ shelves he’d only just stocked like they were a tonne of Lego bricks; and to top it all off, to top it _all_ off, another customer kept slapping their hand on Will’s upper arm the whole time they spoke – it was as if they were pals discussing an old memory rather than applying for a new type of meds.

After several minutes of _that_ he considered homicide to be a more effective prescription…

He fought hard to bite his tongue like he did, but instead of risking prison and worse, unemployment, he feigned a crooked smile, filled out the necessary paperwork, bagged the medicine and re-stacked the stupidly long shelves.

Three fucking times... In an hour.

“The best for miles, huh?” he breathes out a sigh, “Alright, I’m following you.”

Both turn to the direction of Jimmy’s voice travelling through the hallway, soon followed by Brian’s over a the ding of the cash register. She lowers her own, “C’mon, lets get outta here before they notice we’ve gone.”

“ _Beverly Katz,_ ” he says sarcastically, almost whispering, “ _daring_ to leave work early to avoid incessant tedium…”

She jabs his rib with her arm, “Shut up. So, you in?”

“Think we can trust them not to mess up the place?”

She shrugs, her hair sliding over the shoulders of her blouse, “Honestly, I don’t really care tonight. Jack can yell at them in the morning.”

Not wasting another second, both free themselves of their remarkably dull aprons and hook them over the wall pegs in the staff room. They grab their coats next, then quietly slip out the back door.

After today, he’s thankful the darkening pinks and purples of evening brought order to balance out the chaos. Moreover, signs of Autumn draw near with each passing day, the chill’s increasing presence making itself known little by little. It’s also his preferred time of year to fish. A few miles from his house in Wolf-Trap lies a stream with plenty of Minnows and Smallmouth Bass flurrying about, just waiting to be caught. The breeze tickles against his neck from the opposite direction with the occasional maple leaf falling from the branches above them on the side-walk. In a few months snow will sheathe the town in a blanket of white. Admittedly, he’s rather looking forward to it. His little family of dogs back home love to trudge around in the foreign substance, both cold and soft beneath their toughened paws while they leap and play, with him often joining them.

As they walk, Will listens to her ramble about the duo back at the Pharmacy, mostly in a humoured fashion and in turn she hears of his gripes throughout the day. A short time passes when Beverly points to well-lit shop near the end of the street. It’s strangely ominous looking when singled out among the others; all of them closed with the blinds down and lights switched off.

Apart from this one.

The reddish-brown brick walls of the shop give off an almost Victorian like motif alongside it’s pristine, proud standing windows (black in frame) ensconced from one end to the other; meshing surprisingly well in contrast to the more modern elements. He can’t help but feel short when standing next to them. What’s more, elegantly printed letters bearing the name _Divine Coffee_ span across the glass panes, written in gold and emphasized with a fudge-brown undertone.

Will opens the glass door for her and they head inside, a bell chimes softly above; it reminds him of an old sweet shop his father took him to once as a boy before the laboured days of working in the Louisiana boat yards, that mostly being where he grew up.

 _Whoever runs this place_ clearly _threw money at it. Hell,_ _one of_ _the damn coffee-machine_ _s_ _looks like_ _something_ _straight out of the 1800s…_ he’d be kidding himself if he says it isn’t easy on the eye though. Likely only used for specific beverages, it’s carafe appears shiny and clear with the silver trim reflecting gloriously in the light. Next to the other appliances dotting around, it’s definitely the odd one out.

Observing this, Will comes to the conclusion that the guy Beverly mentioned either has good taste, or is just a pompous prick eager to show off his finances with fancy looking equipment.

“Miss Katz, lovely to see you again,”

Speaking of…

“Good to see you too, how's business tonight?”

“Having recently opened, I would have to say well, thank you.”

At first glance, Will isn’t sure what to make of him. The guys face is fairly refined, sure, but in all honesty, he doesn’t care enough to analyse for anything specific. He merely gives a split-second exchange of a look for the sake of typical formalities, being a new customer and all that.

There’s a pleasant, whiskey like smoothness to the man’s accented voice. He can’t place where it’s from besides that it’s uncommon to him personally.

Will approaches a step or two behind his friend as she and the man continue to talk. The bell rings once more after letting the door go, allowing it to fade in amongst the chatter. It’s like he isn’t even here. He slips off his jacket before slinging it over his arm, the other hand returning to his pocket like before.

There’s not a soul in here other than them. His wrist watch reveals it’s getting on 9pm.

“You’ve brought me a new patron,” the man says, distracting Will’s focus back to the duo. “welcome to Divine Coffee. I hope you take a liking to my humble little establishment.”

Will’s brow creases a little as he nods, “Nice place you got...”

“Hannibal, this is Will Graham, he’s new to town.”

 _Well they’re friendly_ , he thinks, giving a tight lipped smile from being introduced. In the corner of his eye he catches a wide simper present on the man’s features.

“It’s always a pleasure to see new blood in Baltimore. So, what can I get for you both?”

Once Beverly’s ordered hers she steps aside to rummage in purse with Will awkwardly stepping closer. The counter-top is roomy, either side surrounded by various jars of richly roasted coffee beans, colourful shell covered sweets and another half filled with coins; probably tips. Coupled with this, freshly made cakes and other goods lay shielded behind a lengthy glass display case, recently polished. The pastries in particular are enough to deflect his attention for a moment. Each one’s been expertly made, shaped and glazed with some twisted like cross-knots. They almost look to good to eat.

Hanging above, he studies a vast assortment written in chalk on a 10ft long blackboard; all thought of needing to make a decision instantly returns to the forefront. A lengthy pause fills the shop instead, bewilderment quickly fogging his brain by the amount on offer.

“ _Ah–_ ”

The man, Hannibal, bows his head in understanding. A single laugh passes gently through his nose, “A rather intimidating selection, is it not?”

Will grunts, “I don’t… I haven’t got a damn _clue_ what any of these are to be honest...”

“Take comfort in knowing you aren’t the first to say so. May I recommend something? I can bring it over to where you’ll be seated.”

Wide eyed and lost, he just agrees – most of them sound closer to unknowing luxury rather than a simple drink so it’s probably the safest bet. The man turns on his heels and promptly gets to work, asking them to find a table.

Will’s hands perch themselves in front of him over an oak wood table beside the stretch of windows. Beverly’s sitting opposite, her almond painted nails skimming lightly over the leather sleeve of her jacket; “So, what’s eating at you?” Will hums at her with a frown, “The writers block, remember?”

“Right, right, sorry–” his hands slide over his face as if trying to rub away the growing fatigue in his eyes, biting at the walls of his cheeks in frustration at himself for not being on the ball. Before he could even get into any details, her phone rings. She draws out an exasperated sigh, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth,

“I’m sorry, Will, it’s Jack… you mind if I–” she gestures towards the door with her phone in hand.

“Crawford? Yeah, yeah go.”

“I’ll try to make it quick. Wish me luck...”

He watches her leave. He knew from day 1 at the pharmacy that whenever Jack Crawford calls it’s rarely a good sign. She’s standing on the edge of the side-walk, one hand clasping her hip as she sways her weight from one foot to another, head facing the ground after turning her back to the shop, concealing her face from view. He hunches over closed hands, fingers rubbing meticulously over his knuckles. If he hadn't forgotten to grab his notebook this morning he'd be dabbling details of his surroundings to distract himself right about now.

Foot-steps approach from the side. The owner, coffee-server, _whatever_ his name, stops upon reaching the table with a rounded black tray held just beside his head. He’s looking out the window now too, “Would that be Jack Crawford by chance?”

“You know em’?” Will could just kick himself for asking that. _He just said the guy’s name, Graham._ _Wake the hell up_. He stays quiet.

“That I do. He can be quite… presumptuous when tempered I think. No doubt our friend Miss Katz is being subjected to another lecture as we speak.”

“Putting it _mildly_.” Will says dryly.

It wouldn't shock him to learn if he’s coming across as ill-mannered or dismissive, most associate him as such without even hearing a single word fall from his mouth. He understands why of course – he’s not exactly the social type: often he’s alone or with Beverly, mostly quiet during work, irritable around most people, then there’s the main point of contention: his common eversion to locking eyes with almost everyone _._

The coffee mugs are settled onto coasters either side of the table, both of them porcelain with the shop’s name engraved on the outer centre. Will’s thumb traces around the letters, patiently waiting for the man to either speak or leave him be. A tasty smell steams from the mug in front of him. Cupping his hands around it, two fingers thread through the handle before raising it to his lips.

It isn’t terrible. In fact, it’s actually pretty good; rich, flavoursome and spicy – Cinnamon maybe? He’s doubly impressed since the guy who made it wasn’t even aware of what he likes, or what he doesn’t for that matter.

Albeit discreetly, Will’s startled when his own voice resurfaces out of nowhere, “What’s in this?”

“Ginger and pumpkin spice, to make it brief. Forgive me, but I didn’t inquire to ask if you have an allergy or particular taste.” the man’s feet pull together smartly. The empty tray hiding behind his straightened back, “If it’s not to your liking, I’m perfectly happy to–”

“No, no, it’s not–I was just gonna say that it’s… good.”

Satisfied, the man’s grin returns, inclining his head in a thankful gesture, “If you are in need of nothing else, I shall take my leave. Enjoy.”

Will doesn’t say anything more as the guy walks back to his station, convinced he’ll make a further fool of himself by spouting out another pitiful attempt at basic interaction. This whole time Beverly’s still on the damn phone to Jack. When she finally comes inside, she pushes open the door with a scowl and slumps down into the chair; sweeping all her hair to one side. He opens his mouth to speak but Beverly stops him, raising up an open palm.

“Don’t ask...”

“I’m gonna ask. Did Crawford yell at you?”

“Not _at_ me, _to_ me. Y’know that guy Kenneth that didn’t come in for his shift this morning? Well, Jack got around to watching the CCTV footage from last night when that bunch of meds were stolen from storage, and he’s the one that took em’...”

“Really?” crinkling his brow with a grimace, “Not surprised Jack’s pissed.”

Beverly jerks her head to the side in agreement after knocking back most of her coffee, “Yeah. Anyway, tell me what’s going on with you. Did ya talk to Hannibal while I was gone? Hey if you need inspiration maybe you should try talking to him.”

One brief back and fourth alone was enough to remind him why he tends to avoid it, he’d already forgotten the guy’s name was ‘Hannibal’ for gods sake. He swallows another gulp of his drink with the zesty taste lingering on his upper lip, his tone comes off as somewhat derisive, “What, you think I should just… _walk up_ to the guy to ask for ideas to complete my book?”

“Not to ask, to _listen_. All I’m saying is he has a way with words and you–”

“Come on,” he leans back in the seat, “this isn’t my first book, I think I’m capable of putting pen to paper.” he says, unintentionally bitter.

“I know you are. He’s a good guy, Will. Hec, you might even like em’." he chuckles at that.

Already having known Will prior to his move, she’s aware of his standoffish nature when it comes to being offered help or advice. Luckily for Will, she never takes his vexations personally. He’s been a good crutch for her to lean on and he’s more than proven himself to have her best interests at heart when it counts. Still… he’s being a bit of a dick and she’s forthright in telling him so. She just smirks when he apologises and her hand moves to pat his arm.

“Stop saying sorry, dammit. I know you and I know you’re working hard on this. You went through a lot last year so I don’t blame you for being a little worked up about everything.”

“Oh, I’m _always_ worked up, Bev. But for what it’s worth… thank you for putting up with such an ass-hole like me.” her face lights up, chortling in response; his smile is broad and genuine this time.

Over to the side, Hannibal stands behind the counter polishing off various cappuccino glasses with a vanilla teacloth, _D.C._ stitched in gold cursive on one of the corners. His attention diverts over to them upon hearing the gleeful noise. It’s not often someone new arrives in town, no-one he’s unacquainted with at least. Other than Beverly mentioning he’s a friend, he’s confident in assuming they aren’t a secret couple. Her cheeks aren’t the right sort of rouge for that to be the case as they’re more pink than red, and her laughter isn’t a particularly high pitch, rather it’s controlled and casual.

Indeed, just a friend it seems.

They rise from the table, she strolls to the door whereas the man starts making his way over; some his straggly curls hanging over his brow. It’s clear as day that he’s not fond of public spaces given the tension stiffening his stride – that and his general behaviour since walking in. Hannibal is indifferent toward his opinion of this new customer and likely won’t think negatively even after he’s gone. More often than not he would be easily able to differentiate a customer, new or old, as either pleasant or unmannerly within the first conversation; he prefers to judge them based on decency (or lack there of) rather than their aesthetics or choice of friends. Abnormally however, he can’t put it to practice this time. Beverly’s friend presents himself as gruff and fairly uninterested, one might even say rude to a degree–but there’s something else too: though what he cannot say.

Peculiar.

“Hey,” Will says, clearing his throat, “I’ve gotta long drive home ahead a me, I couldn’t get a coffee to go could I?”

“Of course. The same again or would you like to try something else?”

“Ah, same again... please.”

Putting down the glass, he folds the cloth and drapes it over his shoulder. He turns his back to Will, flipping open one of the coffee jars to start the brewing process, “Providing you come again, I’ll have to get you to try one my favourites.”

“You sound sure that I’ll be back.”

“When you take into account your request for another, the prospect doesn’t seem all that unlikely.”

Will’s lip quirks, “Hmm.”

With Beverly waiting outside he stands there idly watching Hannibal’s actions as the coffee machine works in relative silence. A buzz is all the noise emanating from the boiling, maroon liquid streaming from the faucet into a take-away cup; the cream and ginger infusion causes his mouth to water in anticipation.

Will meets his gaze for the first time. It’s only for a moment when exchanging the cup for the bill. A well of irritability threatens to rise again but he calms it, knowing it’s because he’s tired and wants to get home as an alternative to the man himself. That’s something at least.

“Thanks.” he goes to walk away but finds himself steadfast when he’s unexpectedly spoken to again, the accented voice low yet very distinct to his ears.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Non-judgemental.

Even sincere.

Will simply says, “Eyes are distracting…”

Then he leaves without another word.

Now that’s interesting.

***

Getting out of the car a dull thud passes through the quiescent when he shuts the drivers side door. Happy anticipation warms his heart as multiple dogs start barking from inside his little house; all seven of them leaping up at the same window to the right side of the porch. Locking the car he makes his way to the small number of steps ahead, his boots treading firmly against the aged white boards with minimal sound.

His residency out here means there aren’t any houses nearby for where he lives is actually farmland he bought for a half-way decent price. It’s a fixer-upper sure: some of the walls need better insulation, a few floor boards creak when you walk over them and yes the heating system _is_ on the fritz... fortunately for Will, he’s got the skills and persistence needed to sort the place out; plus, given his history of fixing boat motors and other kinds of repairs, it shouldn’t be much hassle.

His hand purposely lingers over the door handle, their excitement obvious as they rush to swap positions, barking and yelping at him through the door. His grip is slow lowering the handle, preparing himself for what’s next – when the door opens, a wave of hounds _charge_ at him, knocking him back with uncontrollable laughter as he gives in to an onslaught of nuzzles and licks. His hands work frantically at scratching as many ears as possible, sadly, he can’t get all of them.

“Hey, Winston!” he quips when one of the bigger ones swipe at his stubbled cheek with a tongue; Will hugs him fondly.

By the time they finally ease off him he’s barely able to pick himself up, now near devoid of breath. It humours him to witness the many tails wagging furiously by his shins and thighs. He _tsks_ at them, then says, “C’mon, everybody inside, lets go.”

Chucking his jacket over the coat wrack, he goes into the kitchen with the pack at his heels. When commanded, they stay put, sitting their furry buts against hardwood floor, each eagerly awaiting the promise of food. They watch him cook and boil two joints of beef, smothering them in herbs and gravy before dunking them into a large steel bowl until perfectly marinated. To the thrill of his little four legged family he sets out their individual bowls, dividing the food into reasonably sized portions for each of them, the smallest of them being Buster (barely half the length of Will’s arm).

Will can’t settle down himself yet. He has to finish the next few chapters soon or come time to meeting with his editor, he won’t be ready to present; telling himself, _You've got this, Graham, just finish this one chapter. Finish it, then sleep_. before fetching his fattened notebook of ideas and organising himself at the kitchen counter.

The dogs curl up in front of the unlit fireplace, Winston choosing to stay beside Will while he slaves over his laptop; repeatedly glancing at the untidy writings in his lap with every other line. Occasionally he reaches down from the barstool to rub the animal’s ears when he yawns. A good couple hours pass by, unbeknownst to Will. His jaw locks, face screwing from a blend of disbelief and unwanted loathing toward the words spilled on the page.

 _He remained still, the shock causing him to_ _–_

“No, that’s not right...” his middle finger rapidly taps the backspace key, typing something else.

 _The figure_ _swarmed in dark_ _made him grow silent as it pursued his frie_ _–_

“Fuck it, just... okay...” Will deletes the line again. Raking a hand up his face it stops to meet his forehead until he conjures up another sentence from the plethora of ideas racing through his head. It’s then he finds the perfect one. Desperate to get it onto the page his fingers brush over the keys again.

 _Unnerved, h_ _e_ _clutched_ _at_ _the knife_ _hidden in his pocket._ _Then, i_ _n the space opposite him assumed the shape of a man filled with dark, and swarming flies…_ _H_ _is heart beat faster and faster,_ _feet still_ _rooted_ _in shock_ _._ _The adrenaline began to build inside him with the need to_ _save_ _his friend_ _eradicating_ _any_ _trace_ _of rational thought. Finding his strength, he bolted_ _through the window_ _, weapon in hand. He knew what he had to do_.

He props his forearms on either side of the laptop, staring attentively at the text. Reading it over, and over, and over... It’s the best he’s come up with in the last few weeks. Reading it a fourth time, his eyes burn and flutter tiredly; his focus dwindling at long last after ignoring it for so long. He peers at the clock mounted on the wall behind him.

2.27am...

“ _Shit_ , shit, I gotta be up in a couple hours… _God dammit_...”.

Closing the laptop, he leaves it on the counter, cursing at himself under his breath. Tip-toing around Winston he reaches to flip off the wall light. It’s at least another ten minutes until he collapses onto the bed, the desperate want to sleep weighing his head further against the pillow.

If only he remembered to save the document before closing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a helluva lot for reading! :-D


	2. Merely Having Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perturbed, Will forcibly matches his gaze, “Just so we’re clear,” he says with newfound confidence, the seriousness in his tone is hard to ignore, “I don’t take too kindly from being psychoanalysed. I already had enou–it doesn’t matter.”  
> “Will, understand that I didn’t mean to–”  
> “I’m grateful you held onto this for me. I should get goin’, leave you to your work. Looks to be a pretty busy night.”  
> He starts marching down the street. Before he’s even past the building Hannibal says, “Just one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”  
> “What is it?”  
> “Am I correct to assume you are a writer in your spare time? You must create beautiful things with the right inspiration.”  
> Will scoffs. “Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use… goodnight.”

Will’s barely slept. _A_ _t_ all…

Dreams aside and mostly thinking about the chapter he just kept waking again and again until the alarm finally signalled his defeat for six in the morning; the worst part? The drive is a solid hour and a half. He hasn’t got long to get ready, only enough to feed the dogs and get dressed. Pity he can’t flick through the fruits of last nights – this mornings – labours.

The day grows long and tiresome fast. Consistently his eyes burn and moisten then turn dry, only to burn and moisten again for most of his shift. Many times rubbing at them in hopes to shake it off while doing his damnedest not to strangle someone.

Not that he ever would.

Well… maybe.

It depends.

Exhausted and sick of the crap everyone’s stuck with drinking from the break room, he parks outside Divine Coffee. He lets the engine run a moment longer; the vibrations passing throughout travel up his shoes, thighs and back, making his muscles tingle. A black and silver Bentley appears lonesome on the other side of the road; whoever owns it must take pride in it’s immaculateness.

In the fade of evening once again the shop’s bright and distracting; and someone other than he might even say welcoming. There’s a trio of women sitting at one of the tables inside, chattering away amongst themselves as they sip from pricey looking glasses and mugs. He swallows the air filling his lungs. It’s getting dryer, _mustier_. Must be the lousy air conditioning. Near stumbling out the seat, he locks the doors before heading inside. The bell sounds and one of the women turns their head to gawk at him.

“Good evening.” Hannibal calls, “I didn’t expect you to return so soon.”

Will’s hesitant on his approach, “Well, I can always leave.”

“Nonsense. Please, come closer. I promise I won’t bite.”

One might assume he’d be less… uptight, given he’s been here once already. Then again, general socialization tends to drain him in high abundance: primarily at work. If only that would help with sleep. Hannibal puts the crockery he’s polishing aside;

“Miss Katz isn’t accompanying you tonight?”

“Nope. Just me.”

“That’s a shame. Always a delight to see her, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hm. Could I get something strong? I dunno what specifically...”

“Not a problem. Please, find somewhere to sit and I shall bring something promptly.”

Unsurprisingly, he claims the table furthest away from everybody else: that being in the corner. He observes the few people passing by outside; each similarly unremarkable to one another, not that he could really talk.

In his mind, he’s anything _but_ remarkable.

Itching unease creeps beneath his skin, Will tugs the sleeve of his coat further past his wrist to ignore it. Seizing the opportunity alone he takes to jotting things down in the notebook, drawing his focus to the actual room instead of the faces within it. He’s quick to lose himself among the scribblings. Starting the third page a light clunk breaks through his thoughts, unaware of Hannibal now standing beside the table, silent as a cat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting. Here we are–”

“Oh, thanks.” Will mumbles, shielding the notes with his arm.

“May I ask what you’re writing?”

“It’s not a complaint if that’s your concern.”

“Not at all. Although even if it was I wouldn’t take offence.”

He shuffles forward in the seat, “So – what I got this time?”

Hannibal regards him for a quiet moment, making his own mental note on the change of subject. He remains stoic as he describes the coffee laid out. Pointing out Will’s fondness for the pumpkin spice, it’s another similarly zesty, dark roasted infusion but with a special ginger and caramel twist.

Unbeknownst to Will himself, he’s only half listening. Frankly, as good as the coffee is, he’s not really fazed by whatever ingredients to which it’s made; merely desiring to regain a semblance of energy. The man’s voice has a relaxing lowness to it. He blinks hard. Once. Twice.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm, what?” Will says, eyelids flickering.

“Perhaps you should hail for a cab rather than drive yourself? It would be most unfortunate to hear my newest customer ended up in hospital from falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Oddly specific – sure thing dad...” Hannibal breathes a laugh through his nose, “Sorry. I’m just tired. You think I could–”

“Have another to go?” Will nods back, “Of course.”

When he walks away, he takes a much needed swig, then downs the whole thing in two or three gulps. One customer stops Hannibal in his tracks by playfully touching his arm while a spectating Will cannot resist rolling his eyes. From the woman’s poorly attempted flirtations, her hand is swiftly moved away.

“My apologise madam, but I am _no_ t on the menu. Excuse me.”

His smile is small, polite, and she blushes. The other women at the table struggle not to tease at her attempts.

_Smooth. Clearly quite the ladies man._

Will’s phone rings and he answers, “Hello, Alana.”

“Hello yourself. You finish those chapters you wanted me to go over?”

“Yeah. I’m at this coffee-shop a couple blocks from the Pharmacy. Should be back in Wolf-Trap around half-ten, I’ll see ya soon.”

He grabs his bag on the way to the counter where he’s presented with his second cup.

“How much I owe ya for this one?”

“The same amount as the first.” Hannibal says.

“Right, yeah, um... how much was that?”

A grin forms in the crinkles of Hannibal’s eyes but he doesn’t see it, too absorbed in scrounging through his pant pockets.

“$3.99 each, please.” 

Handing over the cash he doesn’t wait to take a sip, _actually_ _tasting_ this one. A flood of dopamine hits from it’s deliciousness; truly heaven in a paper cup.

“Will Graham – it’s been a pleasure.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

***

Alana’s sitting on the porch steps when he gets home. She hugs him and keeps the surrounding animals off while he grabs a couple beers from the fridge.

“So you were at Hannibal’s shop?”

He cracks off the caps, “You know em’ too, huh?”

“He’s quite the character. Matthew introduced us at a dinner party he hosted three or four years ago for Jack’s wedding anniversary. He even speaks several languages, including Italian.”

“Just because he talks all fancy doesn’t prove he has anything to say, Alana.”

“Do I detect a stab of jealously, Mr. Graham?” she says playfully.

“ _Jealously?”_ he scoffs, “No, far from it. I don’t even know him.”

He’s just a guy.

Just _some_ guy running _some_ coffee-shop for folk to sit in after a laborious day of mind-numbing dissatisfaction.

A pause steals the room when Alana drags an office box loaded with hardbacks from the corner. She swipes one of them and brushes a thin sheet of dust off the cover,

“ _A Thicket Of Antlers_. Isn’t this your first book?”

“Yeah, finished publishing it when I... before I left Louisiana. Dad never got the chance to read it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Another pause.

Before things can turn awkward – if they aren’t already – Will flashes her a half-smile, “If you want a copy, have at it.”

“It’s okay, think I’ll pass.”

“Really? You _wound_ me, Alana...” feigning disappointment he covers his heart for emphasis, much to her amusement.

“I’m not stealing one of your books, Will. I think I’ve bothered you enough since we met.”

“You’re not bothering me – you’re doing me a favour. Anyway, gimme a minute to fire up the laptop.”

Immediately he wishes he didn’t.

More than half of it’s gone.

Half.

Internally berating himself he desperately searches for what he wrote inside his head. _You careless, idiot…_ It’s all part of the writing process he reminds himself. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost his shit because he’s tired.

Or even drunk.

So of course he fishes for the notebook in his satchel, but it’s nowhere in sight. Alana suggests it could still be at Divine Coffee. Without a second thought he heads for the door; she persuades him not to leave, insisting it can wait until tomorrow. Passing the time with mostly one-sided talking, beer and dogs begging for treats, Will drifts off in the living chair around midnight. She fetches a blanket to cover him with and leaves a note on her way out.

The next morning he awakes with a crick in his neck. He reaches for Alana’s note planted on one of the hardbacks:

_I took you up on your offer. Here’s Hannibal Lecter’s number in case you wanted to ask about your belongings before going there first._

– _Alana_

_P.S. you’re looking a little thin, Will. Do take care of yourself._

Like Beverly, he has known Alana for a long time. She’s been his go-to veterinarian alongside Matthew Brown for a couple years now and she’s always done right by him, and he for her. But he could do with her being less concerned.

The details she left gets thrown in the trash. The shop’s not even open yet anyway, it’s pointless calling. He feels hungover despite not having many drinks last night.

After work he remembers to stop at DC. He pushes the door and...

Holy shit.

It’s _packed_.

No free tables.

No empty chairs.

Hell, no fucking floor or _breathing_ room.

 _In and out, Graham… just see if_ _it’s_ _here and g_ _o. Everything’s fine..._

This is anything _but_ fine.

Don’t any of these people have anywhere else to be? Anywhere at all? All of them, just nattering on; how they can hear what each other are saying on top of the noise is beyond him. Among the stream of faces is Hannibal; his calmness is enviable, the laid back confidence in his movements causes Will to question how someone can be so composed, so self-assured. His legs threaten to buckle beneath him until forcing them to propel forwards.

Thankfully the line moves rather quickly as people take their orders and go. A phone buzzes behind him when someone else joins the queue. Upon reaching the front, he’s unsurprised by Hannibal’s lips raised into an elegant simper.

“Well hello again, Will. What can I–”

“Listen, did you find a notebook yesterday?” he interrupts, barely missing the subtle change of expression.

“I did. I put it somewhere safe until either yourself or Miss Katz stopped by.”

“Great. I need it back.”

“Could you hurry it up?” says the guy behind him.

Both men glance over Will’s shoulder, but he bites his tongue. Knowing his patience is wearing thin, he swallows the lump compiling in his throat. It’s a Herculean effort to remain polite.

Hannibal admires his attempts to stay collected. It’s obvious to him how distressing this is. Taking no pleasure in his qualms a thought springs to mind, “How about this, wait outside and–”

“Seriously man, what’s the hold up? I’ve got a game to watch in thirty minutes.”

Seldom does he tolerate unchecked rudeness; _especially_ when tending to a customer. A modicum of warning lacquers his voice,

“You would be wise to remain silent for the moment, or else I will not serve you. Understand? Now, as I was saying,” his focus returns to Will flexing his fingers, “wait outside in the air and I’ll bring it out for you. As it happens there are plates and mugs on the tables I have yet to retrieve.”

“Alright. I appreciate it.”

Escaping through the door the nightly air refreshes him. Through the windows a woman stands in Hannibal’s place. With a moment alone he retreats inside himself, enjoying the breeze gently blowing through his hair and skimming over flushed cheeks in a phantom caress – it’s been long since having felt an actual one.

“I believe this is yours.” Hannibal says emerging from inside, holding up the item paired with coffee.

Will’s brows knit together in confusion, “I didn’t order anything.”

“Consider it an apology on behalf of my previous customer.”

He accepts, bowing his head in thanks. “Do you normally give out freebies when someone’s disrespectful? If that’s the case I must’ve gotten you to give out an embarrassing number since I first walked in here.”

“No, this is definitely a first.”

“Hmpf, that’s surprising.” Hannibal’s head tilts. “W’look at me - I’m not exactly extroverted. Or _mannerly_.”

“Good manors are important, yes. However, by what I have seen, you haven’t been discourteous with the intention of being discourteous, towards me or those residing inside my shop.”

“Meaning that I _have_ been… can’t say I’m shocked.”

“Your reaction just now showed me that you prefer to avoid confrontation, at least publicly, that and you find it’s better not to draw attention in front of so many you are unacquainted with. Why cause a scene when you can rob the other person of their victory of wanting you to do so? I have to say you did quite well, all things considered.”

Seriously, the specificity in how he talks is almost more refined than the establishment he’s in ownership of. Contrary to what he said to Alana, he doesn’t hold it in a negative light. Regardless, he can’t shake the uncomfortable tightening of his chest from being read so easily. Many who try often say the opposite about him in retrospect.

Matter of fact, sometimes he prefers being _misread_ , than _actually_ read.

Perturbed, Will forcibly matches his gaze, “Just so we’re clear,” he says with newfound confidence, the seriousness in his tone is hard to ignore, “I don’t take too kindly from being _psychoanalysed_. I already had enou–it doesn’t matter.”

“Will, understand that I didn’t mean to–”

“I’m grateful you held onto this for me. I should get goin’, leave you to your work. Looks to be a pretty busy night.”

He starts marching down the street. Before he’s even past the building Hannibal says, “Just one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“What is it?”

“Am I correct to assume you are a writer in your spare time? You must create beautiful things with the right inspiration.”

Will scoffs. “Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use… goodnight.”

Then he leaves.

Returning to the chaos, Hannibal dabbles in conversation with his friend and co-worker Chiyoh while they continue working tirelessly; not long afterwards the murmuring voices soon dissipate as people start to head home. Strands of honey-brown hair hang over his brow, swaying as he moves; wiping down a table he’s asked,

“Do you know him well?”

“Not particularly. We seem to have mutual friends – or rather, friends of mine whom he tolerates, such as Jack Crawford.”

She hums. “This one seems to have a quiet temper. I trust you saw that the moment he walked in. Perhaps I should be watchful of him in future?”

“Yes, I saw. But, I don’t think that will be necessary, Chiyoh. I don’t believe him to be a catalyst for trouble.”

“And what do you believe him to be?”

He stops, visage void of expression but for the curious glint in his eyes, “That has yet to be seen. But – being already familiar with his name, it’ll certainly be interesting. Could you retrieve the ledger for me please? I ought to fill in today's takings and note what stocks to order for next week.”

In the minutes she’s out the room he stacks most of the chairs. Truthfully, he doesn’t presume Will Graham to be trouble, at least not the direct cause. Yet, he wonders if trouble has a tendency to find him given his standoffish nature. He will have to consult his bookshelf when he arrives home in the morning.

_Eyes are distracting…_

Indeed, it is yet to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE:  
> Checking back with my outline I made some minor fixes to plot inconsistencies and reading flow, but nothing drastic: simply a line between Will & Alana. If it reads a pinch different upon a 2nd visit then that's why 🙂


	3. A Smoother Blend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In turn, playfulness grows in Hannibal’s tone, subtle, but very much there; “Have I embarrassed you?”  
> That damn grin…  
> “Wow, you really are observant.”  
> “As are you. Even if you choose not to display it. I really have to go, but I would certainly enjoy continuing this discussion further.”  
> “Predictably.”  
> “That I am not.” The baristo turns away, abstaining at the entrance. “My doors are open from 8pm to 8.15am, in case you weren’t aware. If you ever find yourself in need of a change of scenery for your writing, it’s most quiet on Thursday’s and Friday’s.”  
> “I doubt it. So long.”
> 
> Will’s eyes follow him onto the side walk. The midnight-blue coat shifts and creases over his form in perfect tandem; diagonal ripples coursing through the fabric covering his back. He makes out the gold timepiece peaking from his sleeve, the street light glints off it’s face. What’s more as the man stoops into the Bentley, Will is somewhat glad he doesn’t catch him staring – or does he while pretending he hasn’t? – the engine roars, he pulls away, and Will buries his nose into a catalogue for something else to look at.
> 
> He’s just a guy...

“Have you tried counting sheep?”

“Is that something you do, Beverly?”

“You kidding? I’m out like a light the second I hit the mattress. Hey Hannibal, do you count sheep?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” he says, offering a refill.

Will gives a single nod of acknowledgement over articulating a verbal exchange; placing his focus somewhere, anywhere but on the baristo leaning over to pour from a black steel pot. His precariously close proximity makes Will shift a little despite the oaky pleasantness of his aftershave. Why? On the handful of times he’s frequented Divine Coffee, Hannibal’s descriptions for each purchase has been short and sweet.

Not tonight though.

Initially, he hoped to avoid an overabundance of small talk given where they left of a few nights ago. This time however, seeking a mundane option somehow resulted getting smacked in the face with a barrage of information damn near instantly. Undoubtedly the man took clandestine amusement in Will’s gaping mouth after a time.

“Ah, Caffee Roma then. You have tried a great number of our coffees thus far, but more often than not you express a particular liking for the strong, spicier variety. This one in particular shall leave you feeling energized bound with a memorable aftertaste.”

“Sure, that’ll be fi–”

“It’s typically an Italian style blend with a hint of sweetness to boot,” Hannibal continued, firing up the machine behind him, “but, if one were to produce it from too finely ground beans it may lose most of it’s desired flavour than if they were the opposite.”

“Yeah, fine, sounds good.”

“I guarantee you will not be disappointed by it’s –”

Will’s tight lipped smile didn’t reach his eyes, “All I’m asking for is a black coffee, ‘kay? Drip, filtered… not this, whatever the hell you’re peddling right now. No offence.”

“My apologies.” he said lowly, popping open a flip jar, “If you like I won’t go into such overwhelming detail again.”

“Great.”

“Regrettably, I still recommend that the beans be ground –”

Will scoffed, “ _N_ _o – yes_ – thank you. Really, whatever is fine. Why’re you grinning like that?”

In light of Hannibal’s previous talking of him he can’t shake off his unease. In a sense it was equal to studying a book synopsis; a cheap, _scruffy_ one at that; how one may examine the various teasings of what awaits inside, all the little imperfections and inklings of dubiety gradually unveiling themselves page by page – chapter by chapter – word by word. True, it’s unlikely to get that far; after all, they are opposite in every way Will can envision. Or care to.

In voice. In clothing. In manors. Self-image, probably...

A part of him toys with the notion that he’s intimidated by Hannibal – no, intimidated isn’t it – guarded? cautious maybe? Alana supposed jealous. It’s crystal which is better suited catering to the social status quo, particularly when politeness and convincing simpers towards someone less than, for lack of a better word, _unpleasant_ , is a must purely because they’re a customer or colleague. Or can at least act as such in the eyes of the general public without repercussion.

But jealous?

Perhaps in part, though modicum.

Even so, he can’t deny the respite the man’s coffee has brought him in recent times.

Hannibal takes his leave, gracefully veering around the tables swamped in mindless talking. Following this, the other staff member exits from the kitchen balancing a tray; her movements are as swift as she is beautiful, gliding across the floor with total fluidity as if on water, never spilling a drop when serving a married couple with tea and French Fancies. Both are so natural in their element, so comfortable.

It _is_ enviable.

Beverly gets to nibbling on a still warm pastry, scrupulous as not to release a sparkling avalanche of sugar onto herself. Her frequent hums of satisfaction cause the odd break in her speech; she pities him for turning down her offer to a freebie on the way in. If she hadn’t of begun listing off a check-list of compliments then he might’ve taken it: _Oh, these are good!_ _Hannibal makes them all himself_ and _yo_ _u_ _wouldn’t believe_ _how great a_ _cook_ _he is,_ yeah, yeah… She can only imagine how hard Will wanted to roll his eyes at that moment.

Alas, with an empty stomach and nostrils riveting the spicy sweetness of her cinnamon apple slice, he is ultimately left contemplating his life choices. ~~_F_~~ ~~ _rom her hiding place,_~~ ~~ _Dawn readied_~~ ~~ _her_~~ , he drums his pen on the half blank page. 

“Y’know I met em’ once,” she covers her mouth politely, “seriously though, publishing editor or not, I thought Chilton was a sleaze.”

“He still is. With any luck the chapters are fine.” he says, doubtful. “Sometimes I think the book deal was a bad idea... and at the rate I’m going my WIP would be better off in a dumpster fire than out in print – what?” he mirrors her frown.

“Will Graham I swear to god, if you bail –”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You’re thinking about it though, right?”

“Wouldn’t you?” dropping the pen he trades it for the steaming mug, “Can’t say I haven’t considered it. Think about it Bev, right now it’s all nothing but stress. All of it. Hell, it feels like… I dunno.”

“But you’ve come so far, it would be a waste is all I’m sayin’.” the cogs turn in her brilliant mind. She hums innocently, “I know what you need.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“My man, you need to get laid.”

“What –”

Will chokes on his beverage, blurting out a few coughs. His widened eyes flicker over the gossiping customers, then back at her. She laughs to the point of tears, pointing out she’s not volunteering on this one. He’s grateful to have someone so full of light through the bleakness. He's grateful for Beverly Katz.

Granted, what she says isn’t without merit. It’s been – _how damn long_ – god knows. The last ‘relationship’ he was in didn’t even last half an hour... fifteen minutes… ten at most. _If that_. Nothing more than a drunken fumbling in a maintenance closet with a woman he’d just met a bar one night, both having downed a vodka shot too many.

How they weren’t caught he still has no idea.

Broom sticks painfully dug into his back from being pushed against them as she yanked open his belt. His hand flipped the light on and off in attempt to steady himself in the cramped space when she knelt, his foot wedged at the base of the door to keep it shut. There was no passion in the act, too fogged to suggest moving to his hotel room. He gasped, tensed and bit down hard on his bottom lip to avoid making noise. When finished she kissed him chastely once before leaving him there breathless, yet unsatisfied. He couldn’t sleep that night. He sat against the door, knees hugging his chest, a cocktail of emotions weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach; each riddled with regret and little relief, he hadn't even got her name – just a number he never called back.

He forces the memory back for now. Beverly’s merciful, veering the subject back towards his work. Hannibal sticks to serving the flock of work-weary customers.

~~_Hiding in the corner she couldn’t still her shaking_ ~~

_Dawn huddled in the corner, awaiting the creature that hungered for her death. The blade ~~shook~~ trembled ~~within~~ ~~her~~ in her hands; her fingers slippery with Ethan’s blood – she knew it would find her soon..._

Fuck it. That’ll work.

Will keeps to himself more than usual at the pharmacy. Brian and Jimmy talk shit to one another throughout as customary to their friendship, while Jack throws plenty of tasks and prescription filings down his way to organize. All is running like clockwork in the run up to lunch. There, among various others in his phone inbox, he opens an email:

_To: WillGraham@gmail.com_

_From: F.Chilton’sPublishingCo@gmail.com_

_Dear Mr. Graham,_

_I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Chilton has decided to re-schedule your upcoming meeting_ _to the twenty-eighth of this month rather than the original September date._

_Serving on his behalf, I apologize for the inconvenience at such short notice. We look forward to seeing you on August 28 th._

_Kind Regards,_

_Lydia Torez, Frederick Chilton's Personal Assistant._

Well that’s just _grand_ isn’t it? Now he has a fortnight. All day Will racks his brain over the crunch of time left to finish his book. How is he supposed to do that? Subsequently, Brian catches him poring over his newest pages for the fourth time when he should be making the rounds.

“Dude, seriously?” he nags; clipboard slapping his thigh, “C’mon, I need a hand bringing in some goods from the truck.”

It happens again next shift.

“Look man, I get you’ve probably got other things to do, but it can’t be when you’re here. Trust me, better you hear it from me than from boss man.”

“You’re right, sorry.” he says, closing the laptop he brought. “Am I needed? You didn’t lose Mrs. McMillan’s prescription again did you?”

“Ye hath little faith.” he raises a plastic meds bag, rattling it. “Actually, I need to deliver this and a couple others before shift ends in thirty but a friend of Jack’s just came in to grab some things – I need ya to handle him for me.”

“Ah, where’s Price?”

“Talking Jack to death in his office.”

He sighs, “And Beverly, where’d she run off to?”

“She had to see to her mom – diabetic, remember?”

Understanding, Will says he’ll manage. Heading for the exit to the parking lot, Brian calls back;

“And Graham? _Be nice_. Don’t get me fired...”

As it turns out, that friend is Hannibal Lecter.

They say little past the common exchanges between staff and customer; perhaps unknowing how to react to the role reversal, at least on Will’s side. _Guess t_ _h_ _is was_ _bound to_ _happen_ _sooner or later_ _._ Paying by card, Hannibal slots the vitamin bottles into the cavernous coat pockets. Distractedly, Will whistles at the car sitting outside the depressingly dull windows.

“Nice wheels, shoulda guessed the Bentley’s yours. Mileage good?”

“Exceptionally. She’s a wonderful companion.” he says fondly, checking his watch, “It appears I am running late. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Listen, I –” the older man turns, facing him again. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t matter.” Will mumbles. “Thank you for your purchase, Mr. Lecter.”

He used his name.

Hannibal catches himself in a rare moment of hesitancy, “Before we part ways, I would like to apologize for my analytical ambush last week. It was perfectly reasonable for you to become defensive given I lacked the usual appropriateness when we spoke. Should you come again I will act professionally –”

_That damn vocabulary…_

“Or we could socialize like adults.”

“Excuse the assumption, but I didn’t believe you to be a fan.”

“I’m not.” Will scoffs, “My _colleague_ told me to be nice.”

“And are you?”

“What?"

“‘Nice.’”

“What do you think?”

“Do you care what I think?”

“Should I?” Will fails to prevent a minor blush.

In turn, playfulness grows in Hannibal’s tone, subtle, but very much there; “Have I embarrassed you?”

_That damn grin…_

“Wow, you really are observant.”

“As are you. Even if you choose not to display it. I really have to go, but I would certainly enjoy continuing this discussion further.”

“Predictably.”

“That I am not.” The baristo turns away, abstaining at the entrance. “My doors are open from 8pm to 8.15am, in case you are unaware. If you ever find yourself in need of a change of scenery for your writing, it’s most quiet on Thursday’s and Friday’s.”

“I doubt it. So long.”

Will’s eyes follow him onto the side walk. The midnight-blue coat shifts and creases over his form in perfect tandem; diagonal ripples coursing through the fabric covering his back. He makes out the gold timepiece peaking from his sleeve, the street light glints off it’s face. What’s more as the man stoops into the Bentley, Will is somewhat glad he doesn’t catch him staring – or does he while pretending he hasn’t? – the engine roars, he pulls away, and Will buries his nose into a catalogue for something else to look at. The problem is that advertisements for Viagra and ointments for Arthritic pain aren't the most entertaining or illuminating of diversions. 

_He’s just a guy..._

***

In all the years Hannibal has served Macchiato’s, Irish lattes with a milk leaf drizzled over the froth, freshly baked breads, French twisted croissants, strudels and many other delicacies, both sweet and savoury; he never fails to impress. Matter of factly, more than once he’s been offered employment at top tier restaurants, cafes – and more than once he’s turned them down. First and foremost, he doesn’t desire functioning under the directive of another or to be a part of a chain, more so when those whom offer insists he make Divine Coffee into a franchise for the means of broader brand recognition among acquiring greater profits. Ultimately both are irrelevant. He stays for no other incentive than for his own pleasure of running it himself.

It’s quiet. Simple. Satisfying.

The love he holds for Divine Coffee has never been, nor will it ever be, determined by wealth or fame. He’s nothing if not impassioned. It goes without saying he has never tired of the work. Nor has he ever been absent from it. He’s stricken not with colds, flues or other health concerns throughout the seasons aside from the occasional headache when overtired. Then, when someone asks the secret behind his good health he always replies: _There is none. Only that I have a nutritional diet,_ with a wink to supplement.

On account of Chiyoh, she is the only other employee with furious dedication to both the shop and Hannibal himself – though to her, he’s more like family. Outstandingly fast on her feet, her tea in particular is favoured among the elderly customers; a recipe bequeathed from her aunt as a young girl. Hannibal’s more than capable of running DC single headedly of course, but he couldn’t leave her behind a second time.

The bell rings, and with it, the night begins anew.

“Good evening, Carol. The usual?”

***

Excluding the recent robbery at the pharmacy, and the gossip surrounding it, there’s little in the way of excitement or intrigue in the usual night-to-night. Due to Hannibal’s friendship with the owner being common knowledge among regulars he’s often asked what he knows. Out of respect for Jack Crawford and those involved he comments not; reminding tenfold he isn’t all fond of starting rumours – or contributing in them. The most else they garner during the long hours is a patron selecting hot cocoa over a Mocha. He’s managing the register after serving a young woman when the now familiar sound of gravelly, apologetic mumbles erupt from the door.

Will Graham at six-am. This a first.

They try side-stepping past each other, failing spectacularly until Will steps aside, holding it open for her, she awkwardly steps under his arm. There’s a laptop sandwiched between his ribs and bicep. Pulling his satchel untidily up his shoulder, the glasses almost slip from the bridge of his nose – he stops them in time with two fingers. Certainly a unique sight among the sharp businessmen and women already seated. Although, Hannibal does notice he’s lacking the usual apprehensiveness; glossing over the nuanced dryness in his voice, uncombed hair or the chafing of his flannel shirt against his open coat.

Admittedly, it isn’t unflattering.

“Morning.”

“Hello, Will,” he greets, “delightful to have you back. I dare ask if you’re feeling well considering the time of day.”

“Fit as a fiddle,” he jokes, “I got an early night for once, thought I’d stop by for an hour or so.” Will peers up to the blackboards, “Do you do breakfasts? I’m starving.”

“Most certainly. Is there something in particular you have in mind?”

He rubs at his neck, careful of the laptop, “That entirely depends whether or not you plan on educating a simpleton on the origins of scrambled eggs...”

Hannibal’s head tilts, “You are no simpleton. Thusly, I promise to avoid subjecting you to such a fate.”

Gratefully, Will is permitted to use the wall sockets over by the side tables; he’s still in view of the window. Setting up, he gathers a couple things out his bag, planting them on the table. Sliding a pencil over his ear he gets to typing, editing, sorting through folders. His tongue bears the aftertaste of inexpensive coffee from earlier; capable enough of providing brain fuel, yet also just as capable of giving him heartburn in the rush to sort out the dogs. Suffice to say, the _real_ coffee can’t come fast enough.

Click.

Click.

Click.

He gave up working at home last night after Buster left muddy paw prints on his notes. Again. He needed to try somewhere else. He considered the library, only they aren’t open yet. Other than that, this is the next best thing, power and wondrously hot refreshments included.

Further _click, clicks_ – his eyes peel away from the HTML doc, briefly switching to Hannibal. The older man’s back is turned, his honey brown hair surpassing the charcoal collar of his shirt, brushing over it with every movement; his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing the caramel skin typically – _no_ – he came here to _avoid_ procrastination – tempting as it is – he needs to focus.

He’s thankful when he slips into the kitchen. His fingers return to tapping away at the keyboard again. _Jesus,_ _you’re not a fucking teenager_ _._ Should he keep the personification? – nah – get rid of it. Strike off the hyperbole in paragraph six; that’s better. Hm… tweak this, delete that and this chapter is done.

Opening the notebook he scans the next phase of the outline. He’s messily crossing out a beat when someone drops a spoon, he winces. The wafting smells reach him first as Hannibal approaches, tray held high beside his head.

“You are forever tapping pen to paper, tracing the rim of a mug or flipping through the pages of your little book. You certainly are a workaholic.”

“Idle hands and all that.” Will cocks a brow, “I prefer to keep them busy whenever possible.”

“Quite. Forgive me for the intrusion, but perhaps it would benefit allowing yourself to _absorb_ , rather then just observe. You don’t have to conjure the rarest synonyms or forcibly transfer aspects of normality into abnormalities to create something aside from what was originally intended.”

“Nothing to forgive.” he clears his throat, “I Appreciate it.”

No word of a lie.

Hitting _save_ Will slides the laptop aside, making room for the plate but keeping it at viewing angle. He’s presented with golden brown toast, bite sized sausages together with gorgeous butter lathered eggs, fluffy and scrambled. His mouth waters in anticipation.

“Thank you, this looks delicious.”

“I hope it’s flavour satisfies as much as the aesthetic.”

Will grabs the utensils. “If I had the option I wouldn’t be at it like this. If I could do it properly without restraints, I would. But…” he shrugs. _You ramble when you’re hungry, shut up._

“I’m unsure I understand.”

“It’s really not that interesting, believe me.” Taking a forkful, the toast is crispy and perfect, the infused pepper and herbs within the little rolls of meat bursting with flavour. He debates if he should speak again or if to hum appreciatively in case he makes an ass of himself. Spearing another sausage, he chooses the former. “This really _is_ delicious. Could I get a coffee, too?”

“By all means. What would you like?”

“You should know not to ask by now.” he half-smiles, “Surprise me.”

For two hours he types, revises, types some more. His mood shifting into something more uplifting. He’s on his third coffee (Café au Lait) by the time he leaves. A hue of orange bleeds steadily in the distance with the coming of day. He asks if he’s welcome back after his shift to continue.

“You should know not to ask by now.” the baristo hides his smugness with stoicism at Will’s nervous sliding of his glasses: a habit. “If you like I can make you a reservation.”

“That – would be good. I’ll even leave a tip if you rustle up another plate of eggs.”

“Oh, I’ll endeavour to provide better than that. Until tonight.”

Will smiles.

***

Will sets up again at the same table. He works posthumously, drinks a lot, sometimes interacting with Hannibal between orders (hell, he’s grown to look forward to it); repeating the same song and dance as many days as possible until the night before his big day. Each one has brought something of use: an ounce of inspiration from trekking by the woodland stream, newly experienced descriptives from French toast and Black Forest muffins, a nugget of chatter from the woman serving nearby, adding to his MC’s inner monologue...

Then – out of nowhere – it hits him.

The crushing wave of self-ineptitude.

Lacking the worthiness to publish again...

No more words spill from his thoughts. The last of the inspiration dissipates. Pondering whether the countless weeks and months dedicated to the books completion has been worthwhile, taking into account his loathing of it’s premise – that of an unnecessary sequel – not that it was his choice to make. His head falls back against the chair, staring up at the cream ceiling. Why does he bother? His driving force behind it died a long, _long_ time ago: his ambition.

“Is everything all right?”

“Other than having the life sucked outta me?”

“Perhaps this will revitalize your spirits.” Hannibal starts, bestowing a teacup, “It’s a Japanese recipe commonly known for clearing the mind and easing one’s woes or anxieties. If need be.”

“Think I’m gonna need more than one… do you... wanna sit?” Will gestures to the seat opposite himself.

“Thank you.” he obliges. Resting his hands in his lap. “I trust you have something important waiting on the horizon? I must admit I was almost concerned by your antipathy to breathe anything _but_ your work as of late.”

“In that case I’m suffocating.” he scratches his stubbled jaw, “I’ve got a meeting, actually. My prick of a publishing editor screwed me over by pushing ahead a week.”

“I see. What is it about writing that enamours you? If it isn’t too personal a question.”

Will contemplates his answer; verily open to provide one this time, rather than reject. He inhales deeply.

“As kid I would often find solace in the stories told in my books. And because I moved around a lot, pathetic as it sounds, they were the closest thing I had to friends growing up. Never stayed in one place very long.”

“Always the new boy at school. Always the stranger.”

“ _Always._ ” he smirks, semi-nostalgic in his wanderings. “As I got older, I would write short stories, read poetry, study my dad’s favourite books, y’know. Writing gave – _gives_ me the tools to create a world of my own making. I decide if and how the characters grow, develop, or remain stuck in their ways, whether their world’s unkindly or justified. It – I guess it... kinda brings me purpose.” he pauses, suddenly aware of himself, “Anyway, I’m, I’m just droning on by this point. Ah...”

Coursing a hand through his hair, the curls entwine with calloused fingers. _Why mention moving around? ‘_ _b_ _rings me purpose?’ Fucking corny – worse – cliché._ He only asked as a nicety, another way to keep a customer happy, surely not in a place harbouring authentic curiosity. More often than not, he seldom discusses writing so personally, if ever. Then again, hardly anyone _knows_ , so what is there to talk about?

“One who values the importance of reading grows to value that of the world around them.” Hannibal’s accent comes off as unexpectedly warm, “Knowledge is what fuels the mind, inspiring it to create, to think, to learn more about who we are, while the words that follow allow us to ponder feelings which we may not have experienced until reading them on a page – or a the very least understood – and in some circumstances still have yet to understand.”

Shocked, Will meets his eyes: a deep, fiery maroon. “Exactly.”

“Better still,” he adds, “one who takes the time to put their heart and soul into such a craft must bear a terrible burden. Either that, or they simply have an unquenchable mind.”

His brows knit together, glance unwavering, “You’re not just saying this to get a five-star review outta me right?”

“That is absolutely my intention.”

Will can’t hold back a cordial laugh, neither can’t Hannibal.

The many disturbances surrounding them seem to fade. No clanging of cups or sharp hissing of coffee machines; only the newfound concordance hanging between them. Hannibal really listened to what he had to say. He doesn’t recall the last time he truly longed for a conversation like this – he never knew he wanted to until now. It’s strangely normal.

For once, he relaxes.

For once, heart pounding, he lets himself be _vulnerable_.

Taking hold of the notebook he says, “Do you still wanna read something of mine?”

***

In bed that night his dogs fill most of the space with him awkwardly wedged beneath the covers. The rain falls harder outside, clashes of thunder soon follow causing Myra to flinch awake. He comforts the Dachshund, scratching at her ears and chin; it isn’t long before she yawns, lowering her head to sleep.

He however lies awake, head turned to the window, listening to the storm and watching the rain dapple against the panes. His thoughts rest with tomorrow morning. _Is it at eight-thirty or nine?_ He rolls slowly not to disturb so many bodies, reaching for the notebook on his night-stand. Seeking out the end, a page falls on his chest. It’s nothing like the others. Golden letters, _D.C_. is printed on the corner. In the middle, written largely and beauteous, it simply reads:

_Dinner?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps, thanks for reading 🙂


	4. The Cusp Of Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He returns to his table, finding Hannibal placing down his drink; his gaze akin to silent gratitude. As promised, he takes some time to sit; the one other tenanted table being waited by Chiyoh. Sipping the coffee he watches Hannibal’s lips shape and meld his speech from over the mug – fixating to be more accurate – semi-convinced the invitation’s some kind of test or incentive to come back and purchase greater amounts of consumable product.
> 
> But if the baristo’s visage is anything to go by, that’s far from the case.
> 
> “I found this when letting myself in tonight,” he says lowly, “it was slipped beneath the main door.”  
> Slowly an envelope slides to the middle of the table. He knows what it is instantly. Hannibal leans forward ever so slightly at his endearing shyness, his fingers weaving together, eyes narrowing discreetly, flirtatiously.  
> “You found my note.”  
> It isn’t a question. Will’s glasses fog from the steam. He mounts the mug onto a coaster, answering with as much confidence as he can muster. Ultimately it comes across as sassy; “And you found mine.”

_Knock, knock._

Patiently, he awaits the woman’s answer at the door on the stone veranda. Her pots of Lilies slotted by the corner contrast stunningly well with the black frame windows: three of which stand tall from base to roof within the octagonal walls to the right of him; curtains semi-drawn. The off angle steps stretch vastly behind him, a smattering of browning leaves scattered all over. With last night’s storm subsided, today’s clouds tear from the glorious spears of gold ripping through them.

Punctuality is more of a character trait than it is a mere politeness of his when attributed to their weekly sessions. The Lithuanian’s ears are sharp to pick up the faint clicking of heels impacting wood and tile, each consistently paced and growing nearer. He adjusts his tie. The lock clacks with the unbolting of a chain, it’s eased open noiselessly. The light, rose petalled sweetness of her perfume radiates from her sparingly; it’s equally as captivating as herself many might say. Once again, cerise lips belonging to Bedelia Du Maurier welcome him with a touch to the cheek,

“Good day, Hannibal. Please, come in.”

Leant back in the leather seats they face opposite one another no differently to when they had the week previously – or the week preceding to that – or the other forty-six of the year. He mirrors her position throughout: one leg crossed atop the other, hands perched modishly in their laps. For half of Hannibal’s session, it centres around Chiyoh alongside her general incumbencies. Bedelia enquires further in retrospect to her progression regarding city life.

“She’s fairing significantly better in recent months.” he states, “For a lengthy period she said little towards me unless I addressed her first. Now she engages with several patrons. Not many, but some. I even caught a glimpse of her smile on Monday when a child complimented her Aunt’s biscuit recipe.”

She tips her head thoughtfully. Voice slow, somewhat melodic, “Some take longer to adjust than others. Some may take years – likewise with Chiyoh. When you first told me of her guilt surrounding that night, confessedly, I was dubious on whether she would develop under your watchfulness. Or you, generally.”

“She will in time. On the other hand, after being alone for so long, I imagine this lifestyle isn’t so dire for her.” Fostering quiet, his poise is perfectly still. “I was looking to discuss something else with you for the remaining time we have left. Perhaps even ask of your counsel if you’re so inclined.”

“Concerning Will Graham?” He confirms; she smooths her pencil skirt. “Have you both communed further since last we spoke? I recall your interactions have been warmer as of late.”

“Indeed they have. And yes.”

“That’s good. And what of each other outside the boundaries of the workplace?”

“None as of yet. Although, having entertained the thought, I acted on inviting him to dinner.”

“ _Dinner,_ ” her refined brows narrow, “you failed to mention that last week.”

“It is a more recent development.”

Bedelia’s eyes are often a mystery; it’s not always clear how they perceive what’s in front of them, nor are they blind to the way others interpret her own curious observations. They study Hannibal’s unblinking ones more so in this moment, paying close attention to the chromatic irises staring back – piercing.

“In light of our recent sessions, this one include, am I right to assume you’re now pursuing a relationship?”

“Would you advise me against it?”

“I know better than to do so.” she quips. “And even if I were there’s little chance you would follow it. I would advise caution when taking interest in an ordinary person.”

“I am not careless, Bedelia.” he reminds, tilting his head fractionally. “I know there is risk.”

She simpers, “That is my counsel.”

Accounting the years they have known one another, Hannibal hasn’t been romantically involved with anyone to the best of her knowledge; the dangers of exposure partial to other reasoning's. Given her patient-therapist history with him specifically, past and present, she has good reason to question the idea. Only now it’s in practice rather than theory. Be it as it may, she is rather intrigued by how it could work – not between Hannibal and herself necessarily – yet that isn’t without appeal to her either. And she of all people recognize he certainly knows how to leave his mark on someone.

“So how did Will reciprocate?”

He explains the card, adding where he placed it. Privately musing over the consequence of such a gesture – or equally the amorous potential. The hour soon concludes. Adjusting her blouse, Bedelia offers the usual drink, though strangely he declines. She escorts him to the entranceway with a final question gracing from her lips;

“I trust you will you be needing fresh stock should your date with Will move forward?”

“I shall, yes. As it happens I wasn’t able to leave town last weekend to replenish my emergency supply; there’s very little left.”

She nods. “Very well – return around five tomorrow and I’ll have three or four bags waiting for you. Will that be enough?”

“I believe so. Until then, farewell, Bedelia.”

And with the shop opening in a couple hours, he takes his leave.

_***_

Will’s heart thumps within it’s fleshy prison as the busying lobby continues to fill. Obnoxious laughter breaks out two seats away from him; so blatantly fake and forced from a woman gratuitously tapping the heel of her shoe against the ill-coloured floor. His satchel sits slumped over his lap, hands resting motionless, omitting the digits thrumming the leather curve of it’s base – the tapping ceases. Cars roll by the building, the occasional beep or sworn obscenity from a heated driver slithering through the pivot windows. Endless voices louden and swell, blurring together among dozens until becoming nothing more than white noise.

The male receptionist answers a call.

“Excuse me, sir? Mr. Chilton will see you now. Head up in the elevator and I’ll buzz you in.”

He stands. “That way? Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

Stepping inside the empty box he punches the relevant button, making his ascent to the top floor. His back presses against the wall, reflection present in his peripherals from a mounted mirror. He motions to adjust his glasses but results in a huff; hand rubbing down his thigh as an alternative. He forgot to grab them from the glove compartment. Lost in thought, he hushes the elevator music playing it’s generic tune. An automated voice greets him when the tiny light above glows and dings, the doors sliding open seamlessly.

Finding the un-desired office, the words _FREDERICK CHILTON,_ _PUBLISHING EDITOR_ are written boldly on the glass. The man, a tad short in stature compared to himself, meets him gingerly when he enters; swaggering around the desk to shake Will’s hand – he doesn’t take it – not that he ever has. He lowers onto a chair. Chilton returns to his own by his computer, his unshaken palm gliding across his dark, slicked hair.

“It’s a joy to have you back Mr. Graham. I must say, time does fly. It’s been how long since our last consultation, six months?”

“Seven.”

“Hm. Lydia usually reminds me of these things you see. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m surprised you never took to tutoring.” Will throws an unimpressed look. “For someone such as yourself, you seem like the type who would benefit from the challenges of educating others on – _whatever it is_ you find of interest outside the nature of fiction writing. An English teacher, perhaps?”

“That may require me to be sociable, Mr. Chilton.”

“You truly aren’t an enthusiast, are you? Depends on the company I suppose.”

Ironic.

“Now, onto more pressing matters. I’m afraid you won’t be pleased.” he says, uncaring of Will picking at a loose thread on the armrest. “If you recall, I informed your earlier draft was truly quite remarkable, though needing some revision – but, I cannot say the same for this. I understand you suffered a devastating loss not long after we met, so a drop in both quality _and_ quantity was to be expected...”

Will’s eyes darken, speaking for themselves as he listens.

“Not that your skills are lacking by any means; on the contrary, you _are_ still rather impressive. Unfortunately, I feel it would be best for you to... restructure. Start afresh. At least from act two going forward as you have _again_ swayed from what was agreed six months ago.”

“Seven – wait, what? That’s a hell of a setback.”

“It is, for you and I both. Now, I skimmed through half the manuscript you sent me last night and I have to say –”

“Stop right there,” his elbows prop onto his knees. “you _skimmed_ it?”

“That’s right, but even though I didn’t –”

“Unbelievable, just – I made changes where appropriate.” an edge breaks into Will’s tone, “ _You_ told me my original outline wasn’t what you thought readers would want. That the concept was there but not worth trying to execute; that it wouldn’t sell because it was a, ah, a stand-alone,”

“I don’t deny that, but you aren’t seeing the bigger picture here.”

“Enlighten me.”

He tugs his tie a little looser, “Sequels are all the rage these days and I thought you could create a better, more profitable title by –”

“By bastardizing it in the form of a follow up to ATOA.” he scoffs, clicking his jaw. _“_ Some… _disingenuous,_ trend hopping, superfluous cash cow of a novel. And if I didn’t change it, go with what you wanted, then you wouldn’t get me published. This was never really mine was it? Pritchard never did things like this.”

Greg Pritchard: that’s whom aided him in his first publication and whom ran the company originally. Chilton had newly taken over as CEO in the final stages of _A Thicket Of Antlers_ hardcopy distribution once the man retired; going so far as to rename the place. He first encountered Will in person when pitching his next WIP.

Then proceeded to drastically alter it.

Even as a first-time author, Will’s book was beloved by a great many readers after it’s release, generating a hefty amount of revenue despite it’s relatively small following. He goes mostly unrecognised as he refused taking interviews alongside rejecting his picture for the index so to most the author is that of an enigma. Chilton believed that was part of the appeal: adds a little more intrigue to towards the product.

As a businessman, having his client branch off to create something new, unconnected, would be a negative; likely wouldn’t reel in as much cash-flow. He needs to push him harder – remind him why this is his ‘best option’. Capriciousness looms in the writer’s eyes. Biding time, he clears his throat. This isn’t going to play easily.

“H-how do you mean?”

“ _Please_ ,” Will jeers, “this is practically your book, your outline. I sure as hell don’t recognize it.”

“Any other man in my position would have saved company expenses by terminating your book deal immediately after your stubbornness to change the narrative.”

“But you knew better… Good thing I’m thinking clearer now than I was back then, Mr. Chilton.”

He swallows, “Meaning what exactly? If you’re accusing me of benefiting from your grief –”

“Oh no, no, not _accusing_.” he cringes, “I’m stating it as fact.”

“If you lose my support, you have no book. Plain and simple. Do you really want that? Either you start again from act two or you cut ties, never seeing a penny. Naturally you’re free to end our partnership at any time,” he reasons, “but believe me Mr. Graham, you won’t find a better man for the job with _your_ income.”

That smug son of a bitch.

Mirthless, Will pinches the bridge of his nose. Valid point – he’s still a prick – but he has a point. This was the only affordable option within his budget, both then and now, with high recommendations across the board. If he tries elsewhere then he’s screwed financially. He’s not well off – far from it. He may even need to cut down how often he buys from Divine Coffee until his next payday. When he’s about to adhere to his wishes an echo plays back to him:

_You don’t have to conjure the rarest synonyms or forcibly transfer aspects of normality into abnormalities to create something aside from what was originally intended._

Remembering that sparks something inside him.

_Knowledge is what fuels the mind, inspiring it to create, to think, to learn more about who we are._

And who would Will Graham be surrendering to the likes of Frederick Chilton a second time?

“Then I guess I’ll wait until I can.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not selling out to further fatten your wallet. This already cost me a small fortune. I get this is just business to you,”

A brief respite takes him.

“but it’s not to me.”

He’s offered a few days to think it over but what would be the logic? As much as it pains him not to see it through, he knows it will rip him apart to allow the completion of something he’ll inevitably grow to hate. He only wishes he felt so strongly sooner. Beverly and Alana haven’t the faintest idea as to the lengths penning the damn thing has taken him. How taxing the whole ordeal has been mentally after many long months. The way Alana plausibly see’s it is in the vein that it’s from his obsessiveness to meet the deadline. Not because he cares to see hit the shelves.

He needed something to ground him at first – a coping mechanism – agreeing to Chilton’s terms at any time, he’s finally come to realize, is an agony not worth losing sleep over; or his integrity.

What’s left of it.

He rises to his feet, calmly walking for the door. He lingers, turning to Chilton behind the sleek, oak desk, pouring a water. What he verbalises is enough to make him overflow the glass.

Let’s just say he’s not permitted to enter his office again…

Slamming the car door shut, Will’s hands trail up his face with an exasperated sigh. They fall to the steering wheel, gripping it. His bag’s slumped beside him on the passenger seat – half open – notebook poking out from under the flap. He slides it out, caressing the cover with a tender brush of his thumb after the ample time spent filling it’s pages with notes, ideas and –

Turning to the back he recovers the slip of paper bearing a script not his own.

_Dinner?_

His mood shifts, the present bitterness beginning to fizzle and wane; unaware of the warmth developing in his chest replacing the tension. Reflecting more on last nights discussion with Hannibal, he glances out the window onto the horde of people rushing in and out of cabs, stores and buses. It’s funny how a single word can refashion a person’s spirits. The way it can convert a despairing morning into a more hopeful afternoon and vice versa. Realistically, someone like Hannibal Lecter has to be a real catch for anyone capable of hearing. Or _s_ _ight_ for that matter. Begging the question: why ask _him?_

He’s not so naive as to table the possibility of ‘innocent teasing’ for the shallow want to withhold customer interest, even through emotional means. Just look no further than to the general public’s behaviours when Hannibal’s perfecting or serving the orders. _They_ keep coming back. The manor in which he presents and carries himself is unquestionably an attractive quality – one Will may or may not consider himself lacking in more ways than one depending on the day. Hell, given that, what’s he got to lose even if it isn’t genuine?

Though that’s unlikely.

Disappointment – used to that. Cold-shoulder – that too. Lack of –

Well. Dare he recall _t_ _he maintenance closet_...

Along those lines, he’s not oblivious to the way they’ve been engaging one another, how it’s gradually changed over the last two weeks. The few times their contrasting eyes have met with that of the other is enough to incite an unfamiliar blend of nervousness within him. The type he’s unsure what to with. Note in hand, he folds it carefully, slipping it into the inner pocket of his blazer. With a shake of his head, he uses up the final, unused page of the notebook:

_It’s a date._

***

Burning daylight he returns to the pharmacy for the rest of his shift (having taken the morning off). He updates Beverly. Instead of calling him an idiot as expected, she endows the single-one sentiment he cannot stand: her sympathies. He’s convincing enough to appear thankful. He knows she means well, that much is unquestionable conjugated with her unyielding encouragement of him. Yet if there’s one particular he doesn’t swallow well, it’s sympathy towards himself. From _anyone_. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He stays behind to help Jack lock up at 8.45. For a man renowned for his booming voice and no-nonsense attitude he was strangely withdrawn when Will clocked in; he continues to be just that – quiet. He mentally chews over what has him acting different, knowing better than to question directly. Jack utters a _Thanks_ _. See you Monday,_ before they split.

***

Pulling up opposite, Will stakes out Divine Coffee, determining if he should be back so soon. A small band of teenagers exit, huddling together and laughing as they head down the narrow street. Taking his glasses he climbs out when the voices fade into the night, leaving the bag. An off-putting thought comes to mind: what if Hannibal wasn’t the one who wrote him? _That’s ridiculous – who else would it of been?_ What is he even doing here? This isn’t a good idea. Stopping by earlier was a mistake, surly – he was pissed off at Chilton – in need of a positive – sick of living nothing but strain.

Now he has a new anxiety to stew over…

He’s about to surreptitiously get back in the car to avoid it when Hannibal enters his frame of view; gathering mugs and desert plates off a window table. When the baristo looks out, he raises a cordial hand, a still wave, after a moment to recognize.

_Can’t run now, he’s seen you. Fuck it. Plan your funeral later..._

Inside, the woman filling the pastry display addresses him with a sotto _good evening_ ; she hasn’t spoke to him before so it’s moderately jarring. Taking the crockery from Hannibal she wanders into the kitchen while he positions behind the register. Neither man reference their exchange of correspondence. Will requests something with chocolate for a change and tries to eradicate the butterflies – or hornets – inhabiting his stomach. _What_ _if_ _she_ _found_ _it_ … that would be disastrous let alone inconvenient. He’d have to play it off as a misunderstanding.

“How did it go?” Hannibal asks, collecting the needed beans, shots and coffee spices.

“How did what go? Oh, right, yeah. Ah, not great.”

“No? May I ask why?”

The words come rickety, “I don’t even know where start. The guy I _paid_ to be my publisher said I had to do most of it again and… that um...” he inspects the leaflets by the tower of glasses on the counter, teeth digging into the walls of his mouth.

Although facing away from him, Hannibal senses his discontent. “You are under no obligation to tell me if you aren’t comfortable. Rest assuredly that I only ask out of consideration, not in prying.”

His lack of insistence doesn’t go unappreciated. The casual hiss of coffee brewing takes hold of the shop floors calm, interrupting his brief re-imaginings of today. “It’s not you, it’s just been a long day, y’know?”

“No explanations needed. I understand completely. Just know that if you do wish to tell someone about it then tonight’s opening rush is soon to subside, meaning I’ll have a few minutes to spare. I’m sure Chiyoh will do well without me for that long.”

_So that’s her name._

Will scouts an empty table. A school kid passing by with his parents trips on a random woman’s purse beside her chair – Will’s knocked forward when the boy breaks his fall using his shoulder, dropping his phone in the process. The kid’s more concerned with his cracked screen, totally ignorant of the woman’s belongings spilling onto the floor. Laughably, the parents usher their son away. Will vacates his table, kneeling to help gather the sundry of pens, lipsticks, gloves and other items commonly packed in women’s purses.

“ _Oh_ , thank you. This was my fault, I’m sorry about about that,” she stresses, brushing her raven hair behind an ear, “I’m so embarrassed. I’m Marie.”

“Don’t be, it’s fine. Really. This kinda thing happens to me sometimes too.” he smiles weakly.

She leaves to catch a cab. Walking out the door he swipes the forgotten wallet under his table, chasing after her. “S’cuse me, ma’am, you left this –”

Marie checks her bag before taking it from him; relieved, “You’re so sweet, thanks again. I’ll be more careful next time. Goodnight.”

He returns to his table, finding Hannibal placing down his drink; his gaze akin to silent gratitude. As promised, he takes some time to sit; the one other tenanted table being waited by Chiyoh. Sipping the coffee he watches Hannibal’s lips shape and meld his speech from over the mug – _fixating_ to be more accurate – semi-convinced the invitation’s some kind of test or incentive to come back and purchase greater amounts of consumable product.

But if the baristo’s visage is anything to go by, that’s far from the case.

“I found this when letting myself in tonight,” he says lowly, “it was slipped beneath the main door.”

Slowly an envelope slides to the middle of the table. He knows what it is instantly. Hannibal leans forward ever so slightly, his fingers weaving together, eyes narrowing discreetly, _flirtatiously_.

“You found my note.”

It isn’t a question. Will’s glasses fog from the steam. He mounts the mug onto a coaster, answering with as much confidence as he can muster. Ultimately it comes across as sassy; “And you found mine.”

“I did.” that famous grin returns. “Would it be audacious of me to ask of your reaction to finding it?”

“Is this how Hannibal Lecter asks out all his customers?”

“He would be truthful in admitting that you are the first, officially.”

“Officially? Hm.” Will’s features soften, “I… wasn’t expecting it. I mean, sure I thought you might’ve liked talking to me for some unknown reason but I figured you were like that with everyone. That and the times I’ve caught the little quirk of your lip and how you’ve been looking at me –” he’s veering off-track. Hannibal’s amused. “– ah, that’s not important. I was surprised – _pleasantly_ – as in I thought good of it. It was nice. No, not _nice_ ,” he withers internally.

“Will –”

“nice implying that I felt good when I found it,”

“Will, I –”

“Okay, _good_ can mean anything. If you only asked me to keep me curious about coming back now that I don’t have a deadline to meet,” _or a book to write_ , “then okay. But if not, then,” he swallows dryly, uttering a laugh, heart beating rapidly as if in danger, “you should know I’m a _god-damn mess_.”

A pause.

“One that I am perfectly willing to experience for myself. If you’ll permit me.”

He blinks, frowning. “Meaning –”

“That I was, and am,”

“Making a huge mistake?”

“Quite the opposite." he assures, "I’m totally serious in requesting your company at my dinner table for tomorrow night. It would bring me great pleasure to cook for you personally, rather than professionally. Coupled with the hopes of getting to know you, and you I, outside the mutual bedlam our working lives. You’re cheeks are flushing. Again...”

“Observant.”

Both linger on the statement repeated from an earlier time. Will skims the edges of the envelope. He can’t believe this. There’s no way someone so refined, so different, so… well – like _Hannibal_ – is authentically asking him to dinner. For the longest time he hasn’t _exactly_ dated. Not really. At least not in the traditional sense of being introduced to the mother or father, or to lie in bed awake in awe of his partner during the ‘honeymoon period’. Presently the only loves in his life are of the K9 sort. Unready to look up just yet, his other hand threads through the mug handle, feeling the heat – assurance that he’s physically here.

“Shall we say, 8’o'clock tomorrow night?”

“8’o'clock tomorrow night.” he confirms; not just to Hannibal, but to himself.

“Regretfully I must get back to work. Shall I prepare you a coffee to go shortly?”

“How could I refuse?”

When Will approaches the counter ten minutes later he’s conferred a paper-cup. The baristo’s hand brushes with his own when passing it. Warm. Elegant. Capable. His breath hitches on contact, unused to it; at first unknowing whether to recoil or relish. He’s also given another note, this one bearing an address. The absurdity of it all humours and baffles him both.

“Should I bring anything?”

“Only yourself.” he murmurs.

Will hides his eyes. “I’d hate to show up empty handed.”

“You won’t. Your company alone will be a wondrous gift in and of itself.”

Crossing the street to his car he stops to take a final glance over his shoulder at the man he thought hardly anything of a few weeks ago. Abandoning Louisiana – having worked like the devil to finish his book only for it to backfire – perhaps _this_ is what he needs. He’s earned a break. Taking a moment to absorb, he sucks in the cool air, admiring the glittering stars above, and contemplates what awaits him tomorrow. Taking a heavenly swig, one word comes to mind upon licking his lower lip:

Divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethereal Chapter 4 on Halloween! 💀
> 
> Things are definitely changing for these two -- three if you count Bedelia!  
> Hope you enjoyed this latest instalment, see you in Chapter 5 & thanks for reading! 👍


	5. Becoming More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With that, Will enjoys the unique amalgamation of great quality dining and greater quality company as he clears the plate. Setting down the utensils, they lay a hand on the stems of their respective glasses. Waiting. Though not ungrateful, Hannibal tuts when he offers to do the dishes, insisting he’s his guest – he does it anyway – claiming it’s only polite. Once done he returns to Hannibal whom stands over the harpsichord. He joins him. Shoulder to shoulder, he dabbles at several high note keys.  
> “If you’re hoping for a serenade you’ll be left wanting.” Will quips, “I don’t play. I’m killer at chopsticks though.”  
> “Tell me something, if you closed your eyes at this moment,”  
> His heart jumps.  
> “would it be the stream you see?”  
> Maybe there is more to this.

He’s been up for hours. Predictably, seeds of doubt over tonight have cast themselves asunder throughout his subconscious like tying a blood-knot to a lure; only to catch onto thoughts he doesn’t intend to hook. All seven dogs watch their parent closely, unsure why he’s pacing back and fourth in front of the unused fireplace. Will’s knuckles press over his mouth, consulting his mental checklist of what he needs to accomplish anterior to leaving. In a few hours he’ll be starting up the car, making his way to a house he’s never seen, to be with a man still relatively novel, and to talk over dinner about – god knows what – then maybe… even…

_That’s a little ambitious, Graham…_

In his gut looms an ever present inkling that he’ll inevitably screw it up: he might take the wrong road if not wind up late. Perchance he’ll spill some wine or shatter a family heirloom. What if Hannibal has a change of heart, ultimately deciding he’d rather eat alone? What if he’s sent away after spouting an overwhelmed rambling. What if he’s right?

More importantly, what if he’s wrong?

Looking to dowse such fickle fears he stops his pacing and marches for the pine wardrobe-dresser near his bed. If there’s one part of his life that’s in order at least: it’s his clothes. Three blazers hang ironed on a rail inside among some plain dress shirts, various Henley’s, sweaters and an indefinite number of flannel. Folded and segregated into the four rows of draws are socks, underwear, sleepwear and pants, plus a handful of muted ties. Awaiting their purpose, burnished and unscathed sit his best shoes beside the furniture: one pair black, the other a rich brown. Possessing some likeness towards the look he’s going for he grabs both pairs of slim-fitting slacks, next plucking off all three jackets and some shirts. He lays them all out flat on the bed. Having considered how long it’ll take to get there, he’s got little over an hour and a half. No pressure.

Occupying the dogs with food he shuts himself in the bathroom to shower; scrubbing well from top to bottom and massaging his hair with nutty shampoo and conditioner. Attempting to alleviate the timidity he imagines Hannibal’s hands – sultry fingers coursing through his hair – gripping it – teeth and nails raking across skin – that unfamiliar accent whispering into his ear between heaving breaths. It’s idiotic to ignore the flush channelling from his chest to his loins. He’s strangely guilty over such a thing. Taking the stiffness in hand he works himself into a heated, shaking mess beneath the tingling shower streams that quickly turn to needles during his recovery. Re-soaping, he scrubs again; equally thorough.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he exists the steam fogged bathroom. Drying his hair with a different one. Cal tries tugging the former – almost succeeding.

“Hey!” he tries to scorn, “It’s not time to play right now, dad’s gotta get ready.” laughing, he wrestles the burly dog for the towel. A knock comes at the front door, followed by Beverly’s voice. He freezes. No longer playing he claims it back, shooing the animal away, draping the other towel around his shoulders. Opening the door her eyes widen faster than she can whistle.

“ _Wow_. Catch ya at a bad time?”

“Sorta, but it’s fine. Did your mom’s motor die again?”

“Nah, it’s running a lot smoother now, and thanks to you it hasn’t packed-up since. Nice job, by the way.”

Will hums, skeptical. “So is everything _else_ okay? What're you doing here?”

“C’mon, you didn’t seriously think I wasn’t gonna stop and wish you happy birthday did you?”

“I was hoping you forgot.” he grimaces.

“Just ‘cause you don’t like to remember doesn’t mean –” nosy, she peers through the window, spotting the spread of clothes. “Wait a sec. Are you… going on a date? Will-fucking _-_ Graham,” she punches his shoulder, “you total stud.”

“An interview, Katz.”

“Well that’s bull. Why didn’t you tell me? Would you spill on who it is if I ask?”

He laughs.

“Alright, you can fill me in on the details later. For now,” she extends a blue-wrapped present. “happy birthday, Romeo.”

“ _Romeo_...” Tearing it up reveals an ink-black, leather notebook with a silver catch and blood-red ribbon marker; a type of catfish is etched over the pebbly cover. “Y’know something Beverly Katz – I think you might be my favourite person.”

“Damn right,” she states. “you’d be lost without me.”

“Probably.”

Giving her a fond pat to the arm they exchange goodbyes.

Still on good time he makes for the bed and awkwardly hops into some black boxers. Visualizing some options he combines the moss green flannel, grey jacket, charcoal tie and slacks. He straightens his posture in the standing mirror. _N_ _ot flannel._ _He_ _’s seen_ _you_ _in_ _that_ _damn near_ _every time_ _you_ _’ve crossed paths_. It’s nothing all that special. Or enticing. Thanks to Chilton’s ideation's of tutoring coming to mind he whips off the accessory; the _thwack_ sharp amongst the quiet.

“No ties. You’re going to dinner, not conduct a Lecter – _lecture –_ Christ...”

Anxiously picking through the others he settles on a black dress shirt, undoing the top few buttons, tucking neatly into the slacks matching the caramel brown jacket. He completes the set-up with a lightweight coat that reaches the knees, it’s shade comparable to faded coffee beans. All in all simple but elegantly as effective in regards to chic and _hopefully_ class. The colours are decent at least. Mitigated, he checks from all possible angles for anything remotely out of place.

“Good enough…”

Next he combs through his hair with his fingers to smooth and style it. Once happy he dampens it a little for good measure, the majority now out of his face except for one thick curl a fraction above an eye.

It’s almost time to go, lest he wants to be late, and with every coming _tick-tock_ , the moments start to build. Armed with his glasses, cautious optimism develops into minor trembling below the wrists; irrational in the notion he can come off passably presentable, acquire a bottle of wine and yet leave them both discouraged before the night’s over – or even begun – just from turning up. It wouldn’t be the first time. In spite of this, he’s partial this could actually _go_ somewhere if dinner’s a success. Withal, from his experience, expectation breeds disappointment so he’s not garnering his hopes too much.

Hell, a part of him is gladsome he threw out Hannibal’s number.

This way he can’t call with an excuse to cancel.

He feeds the dogs a final time despite having made arrangements with Alana. At the last minute he pockets Beverly’s gift in his coat; it’s unlikely he’ll use it tonight, but still, why not? Finally – everything done – showered and dressed – nerves intact – all that’s left is to get a bottle on the way.

***

Drawing close to the address, he checks the note multiple times; convinced he’s taken the wrong route. Trees scatter either side of the curving road. Not a single car passes in either direction. In the distance, the drawn-out hiss of the sea plays on a loop. Soon he arrives at a gate to a property: the only one for miles. It opens automatically. Rolling up the stone-riddled driveway he one-eighties around the Bentley to park and takes a second to gather his wits; especially when viewing the ‘house’.

Speechless, he gets out, nearly forgetting to lock it. How the hell could a baristo afford a place like this? Although one story tall notwithstanding, it’s of ample size. It’s also modern in design – sleek – the roof like a slanted rhombus, it’s windows wide and tall, exposing the home’s warmly lit interior. The half moon shines from behind a passing cloud; glinting off the glass panes.

Luscious green plants and garden rocks sit close to the stone slabs he walks over. Coat draped over an arm he cradles the wine over his stomach when ringing the door bell, turning his back while he waits. Hannibal Lecter can’t be far enough away in living standards compared to him; though his standards are questionable. _H_ _is taste in men_ _for_ _instance_. It would be funny if it wasn’t true. Thinking ahead of himself, the concept of showing off his little house in Wolf-Trap is grossly laughable but they’ll cross that bridge later. First things first...

_Y’got this, Graham._

_You can always write a book if all goes to shi–_

A lock clicks.

“I am pleased to inform you’re early. Good evening, Will.”

He turns back. Hannibal’s arms are distanced apart between the door and frame, revealing his finely clothed form. A debonair smile decorates his cupids bow. The starting words of the evening seemingly pirouetted off his tongue; the accent in greater potency from it’s lowness in the surrounding peace and not so distant waves. Will’s a little entranced at the sight of him, admittedly.

To him, Hannibal wears the attire with nothing short of natural born confidence. His shirt a deep, plum purple through the ‘V’ of an evening black, pinstripe waistcoat; the perfectly tailored suit-pants garb the same detail. Even his black and gold Paisley tie shimmers softly as though it were liquid metal with every movement – the shoes on the other hand are similar to Will’s own – black and pristinely polished. Each have thought hard in what they wanted to present to one other, that much is clear to them.

Dumbfounded, Will’s lips part, briefly forgetting how to talk. “Hey...” he swallows. “I ah, I brought you, _us,_ some wine.”

Hannibal fondly reminds he needn’t have and invites him inside, all the while admiring the sight of the man on his doorstep as he passes. What is more, he’s delighted by his date’s reaction to greeting him: charming yet lamb-like. Offering to take his coat, Will obliges in picture-worthy bewilderment at the intake of his house.

“Please make yourself at home. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” he parrots, eye’s swerving everywhere. “This place is – well, it’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you approve.”

Will’s guided through to the main room. Over in the far corner sits a black harpsichord with a crystal vase of fiery roses placed on top. Tinted Oriental lamps are dotted around sparingly, as are the candles, producing a cordial glow insofar where aspects of shadow remain. At the centre sits an ebony dining table with four chairs, two of which are positioned at both ends. Snapping out of his dream like perceptions he offers the bottle to Hannibal.

“I’ve never, I haven’t tried it so I’m clueless how good a vintage it is… or isn’t.”

“Chianti,” he tells, “this is an old favourite from my youth. It’s red, very dry and medium bodied while harbouring a light cherry flavour.”

“You know your wine.”

“Does your preference lie elsewhere?”

Will hums, “More of a whiskey guy but wine’s good.”

“Give me a moment and I’ll return with two glasses.” He egresses, presumably, from the kitchen; both of them filled. “Your journey wasn’t too arduous, I hope. You should know I feel somewhat terrible having not prewarned you to the isolation of my residency.”

“It’s fine. I like a drive when it’s somewhere I actually want to reach. My place is equally lonesome anyway. I’m out in Virginia – Wolf-Trap, Virginia… so...”

“I see. All too appropriate for those looking to evade the spying of their neighbours. As you are now aware, I resonate well with such a predilection.” Hannibal scents his drink prior to sampling it, “You made an excellent choice.”

He’s not wrong. Taking a second sip, Will savours the richness, more so the moment they share. Something about him makes him more at ease. Maybe it’s the voice. The attire. The calm. Maybe it’s just _him_. He’s asked why he chose to live in W.T. where he mentions the wooded environment, it’s affordability and that the dogs would, and do, love the space to bark up a storm; undisturbed by complaints.

Hannibal listens attentively; indulging one of many curiosities, in this instance learning of Will’s obvious love for his family of strays and the sheer quantity of his pack. He ponders how many times they’ve likely awoken him at night when begging for food or affection both. He studies his form when he strolls toward the bookshelves. How his outfit fits so handsomely over his lean, well built figure. The slacks sculpt his legs wonderfully, the material curving in all the right places. The black and brown justly complements his hair and creamy skin. His surprisingly broad shoulders are unmistakable now unburdened of heavy coats or weighted down by satchel straps.

Will’s tongue passes between his lips as he browses the myriad of hardbacks. One spine in particular calls for closer inspection. He’s careful when extracting it as though it’s something fragile. “ _A Thicket Of Antlers_ ,” he glances back at him, frowning. “you’ve read my book?”

“And I would again. I bought it last year and found it engaging. Addictive. It certainly had my attention at the time.”

“ _At the time?_ ” he cocks a brow, “that mean you’re not gonna want an autograph, Hannibal?”

They share a look.

“If it pleases you.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“Neither is it a no.” he smirks. “I didn’t wish to trouble you with concerns of arriving to an already served table so I hope you’ll forgive my requisite to continue with dinner preparations.”

He nods, “’Course.” and returns the book.

Intrigued, he idles to a cabinet opposite the table. Above sits a dagger mounted on the wall, it’s silvery blade is rife with detail, the handle a dark oak. He doesn't touch it. Mouth watering smells soon travel in the air, stealing his train of thought. Accompanied by his glass he follows in his footsteps, taking a sip in the archway that turns to a gulp when witnessing Hannibal masterfully waltzing through the kitchen. Easing a tray from the oven he pokes the top with a skewer prior to placing it back inside. Stirring something in a saucepan he turns to discard the oven mitt, discovering Will watching him.

“Do you want any help?” he asks, sliding up his glasses. “I didn’t particularly wanna intrude by _snooping_.”

“Please.”

He steps forward, “Please help or please snoop?”

“Both if you prefer,” he says, “you are more than welcome to peruse and wander wherever you like. In fact I encourage it. But, if you truly want to assist, would you be so kind as to tend to the sauce while I slice the vegetables? The chocolate is almost finished melting.”

“ _Chocolate?_ ”

“Chocolate.”

He approaches the island, setting down his near empty glass. He’s instructed on when and what to add into the hot pool of cocoa and how frequently to stir. They talk little. Almost domestic, he listens to his host hum an unfamiliar tune among the rapid _chop, chops_. For one: not to be a dick, and two: Will has no fucking clue what to say. Heavenly as the saucepan smells, he’s fast to become concerned.

“Is there, um, I – I think I’m _ruining_ this –” he mutters.

“Would you like a hand?”

“Ah, huh.”

The chopping ends. He’s about to move aside when a hand graces the small of his back, the other arm reaching beside him to lower the heat a bit. It startles him momentarily of course, but he doesn’t move away: simply unused to the feeling. That and the other man’s steps were like a cat’s over the tile. Lips draw close to his ear.

“May I?”

Will nods – cheeks colouring – pulse rising – chest _buzzing_.

Hannibal adds a teaspoon of black pepper, a touch more olive oil and shifts behind him, covering the brunets hands with his own; guiding them; stirring first firmly, then gently, explaining the process. Will’s heartbeat ostensibly slows back to relative normalcy. He should shrug him off. This is too new – too intimate – _too_ … He leans back enough to be barely resting against him. After a moment, Hannibal’s chin befalls his shoulder, cheeks almost touching. His hinted laugh re-emerges.

“Is something amusing you, Will?”

He whispers a playful _no_. “Besides the fact I’m somehow _burning_ chocolate,”

“Only a little.”

“while simultaneously being coddled in the arms of my baristo?” he adds, cocking a brow. “Nothing amusing in the slightest...”

“I have the distinct impression I am your sole baristo,” he tilts his chin inward, voice drier from the angle. “I cannot imagine you visit a great number of cafes and coffee-shops in your spare time.”

“That’s because you are. I can’t stand them.”

“Yet you tolerate mine. Often. And on any more occasions one might surmise.”

Uttering a _m_ _aybe_ he turns his head slightly. A sharp cheekbone skims his cheek, soft, minty breaths tickling the gap between collar and flesh. “Are you always this audacious?”

Hannibal just smirks.

Will breathes deep in his repose. Enjoying the weight. The peppery, dark chocolate aroma engulfing the space.

He settles back further.

Before long, the sauce is ready, prompting them to break away. He drinks more wine. Lidding the pot, Hannibal turns off the stove and peers into the oven once more.

“A little longer and then it’s ready. Should we retire to the other room for now?”

“After you.”

Bringing their glasses they exit the kitchen. _So far, so good._ No longer plagued with nerves he refrains from entertaining the disastrous. They sit on the lounge coach in view of the moon, sipping on occasion. He side-glances at Hannibal. The man’s profile is strikingly refined. Appearing honey-brown in the lamp light, his hair hangs partially over his face; his past perceptions having thought it as ashen. He’s caught in the act, cueing him to focus on the glass instead. Will speaks first.

“When was the last time you did this?”

“As it happens I often look out my windows in the evenings.”

In jest, the author sighs, “You know what I mean.”

He says nothing then, contemplating his answer with a roll of the tongue. His voice drives deep, “It’s been an immensely long time. The exact length I cannot say as it isn’t an aspect I commonly mull over. Even so, due to my working habits it isn’t at all surprising to find most prefer their significant other to be diurnal. I have had lovers as you can imagine, but not anything of substance. Tonight with you, dear Will, is the first in years whom I have truly invited to dinner that is neither a friend or former associate.”

_The first in years?_

_Okay._

“Why haven’t you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Curious boy, but that I’m afraid is a story for another time.” Hannibal’s eyes grow tender as if reflecting on a painful memory, though very well hidden in his tranquil features. “And I certainly hope there will be other times.” he segues. “What of yourself? Surely there are many individuals eager to sample you since arriving in Baltimore.”

He scoffs at that. “I’m not hung up on an old flame if that’s what you’re wondering… I’m flattered. But no, there’s not.”

Will Graham isn’t someone with the tenacity to uphold relationships long term. Not that he’s incapable or lacking a desire for it by any means. Chalk it up to not having met the right person to settle down with or something close to it, it’s wise for him to uphold some walls. Another problem is one either loses interest too quickly or aren’t interested enough. For reasons both good and bad he’s oftentimes quick to catch onto the earliest of signs to the point he see’s it coming a mile away; causing an apathetic reaction when he’s told it isn’t working out; and bizarrely that pisses off the other person. He doesn’t tell Hannibal any of this obviously. Besides, doing that would risk eroding said walls after so long maintaining them.

And people sure love the dogs until they awake to speculative sniffs and barking at three in the morning...

He elaborates with considerable care; “At least none worth their salt since they or I split before things turn ugly – _uglier_. It’s funny... one from a couple years ago asked me to consider getting rid of my dogs after a week of sleeping together.”

“And your response?”

“I got rid of _her_.”

Hannibal laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“Well, you asked...”

Hannibal watches the man beside him sip from the glass, confident in his nonchalance over the anecdote. It pleases him to witness this side Will: laid back and simpering authentically, growing more comfortable as time progresses. Truth be told, there’s been numerous who have tried their luck with Hannibal Lecter in hopes of ascertaining wealth, undeserving devotion or half-compliments that would serve only to worsen their lacking self-awareness. They never fool him. Evidently they aren’t as sly or convincing as they frequently presume themselves to be. Lesser still he has yet to permit a _second_ opportunity.

“I like to listen to you, Will.”

“You need your ears checked.”

He cants his head. “They’re sharp as a fox, I assure you.”

“Then allow me to _dull_ your senses with a refill.”

From this, Hannibal excuses himself with his wine to finish the meal, first requesting he take a seat at the table. Shortly after, he re-enters bearing a full silver platter. Once seated beside him at the end corner the two clink their glasses. The gleam in his magnanimous blue eyes is just as stunning as the man himself, whether he’s privy to it or not. Undeniably there’s something concealed deep within them. Embers. A glimpse of fire synchronous with his usual eccentricities. Something faraway from meek. The alcohol’s clearly having an effect also.

Will complements the stunning display. A bundle of purple grapes lay beside a wrack of lamb and sliced vegetables. The sauce he aided with is poured splendidly across the steaming meat and creamy potatoes. The infusing smells are _incredible_. This is categorized as luxury in his mind. In way of meat, primarily living off of fish and pork growing up meant there was little variety in way of his diet; let alone in presenting food as artistry. Not that he ever thought or wanted for it. Cutting a piece, he places the morsel between his teeth. Chewing slowly.

“Chocolate and lamb.” he muses aloud, “You know it already but this is delicious.”

“Wonderful to hear all the same. As a child my mother cooked lamb for my seventh birthday. It was difficult to obtain for a time so when she prepared one for that day, it was a special treat indeed.”

“Some tastes never change. Where’d you grow up?”

“Lithuania. Though when she died I left there as a young man.”

“I’m sorry.” he says, sincere. The complimenting flavours dance harmoniously on his tongue with the Chianti. “I haven’t seen any pictures since I got here. There aren’t any hung on the walls or sitting on shelves. Not unless I’ve missed them.”

“They were lost to me more than a lifetime ago it feels like.” he licks his lips. “Still, I haven’t any need of them. Her imago alongside a great many others are forever preserved in my mind.”

“You have a memory vault?”

“A memory palace.” he corrects. “Having said it, do you utilize a vault?”

“No, I um – all I need is a stream.” Hiding beneath the frames he’s somewhat disheartened having not visited in a long while. “If I wanna go there I… I put my head back, close my eyes, and wade into the quiet of the stream...”

With that, Will enjoys the unique amalgamation of great quality dining and greater quality company as he clears the plate. Setting down the utensils, they lay a hand on the stems of their respective glasses. Waiting. Though not ungrateful, Hannibal tuts when he offers to do the dishes, insisting he’s his guest – he does it anyway – claiming it’s only polite. Once done he returns to Hannibal whom stands over the harpsichord. He joins him. Shoulder to shoulder, he dabbles at several high note keys.

“If you’re hoping for a serenade you’ll be left wanting.” Will quips, “I don’t play. I’m killer at chopsticks though.”

“Tell me something, if you closed your eyes at this moment,”

His heart jumps.

“would it be the stream you see?”

Maybe there _is_ more to this.

His focus swaps from the instrument onto the marvelling maroons, down the fine lines of his face, stopping at slender lips, regarding them in silent question. Oh so slowly does Will lean in. Nose tips brushing. The baristo’s gaze softens on him when new lips ghost across his. His whisper comes temptingly, “Why would I wanna close em’, Hannibal?”

The digits entwine with his when he meets their mouths in a tender kiss. Warm. Unchaste. The taste of lamb is prevalent when slotting together again – _messily_ – less sweet than the last but just as beguiling. Will thinks not of his bungled meeting with the _ex_ -publishing editor. He doesn’t fret on what will become of the original outline he constructed. Ruminations of home don’t flicker in his mind as moving pictures. He’s unsure who initiated the movement causing their bodies to flush together, locking in an embrace with an all too perfect touch to his cheek; a semi-course thumb caressing bone above the edge of stubble when his kiss is returned.

Hannibal breaks away first, enraptured at the sight of him when checking for diffidence: finding none. He brushes a knuckle up his neck, followed by his lips. “Beautiful.”

Will’s scoff is replaced with a low sigh, “Beauty’s an involuntary inheritance.”

“But can still be appreciated.”

“I’m not an advocate for vanity… or _selfishness._ ”

“Then you’ll grow to hate me come morning.” Hannibal purrs, a devilish grin over his unsteady pulse.

Time will tell.

He pulls him back by the knot of his tie, encompassing his wanton lips once more. The wine makes him bolder. Arching up with a roll of his pelvis a broken hum resonates deep in Hannibal’s throat, passing a breathless gasp between their mouths. Both shudder at the contact. They shamble towards the dining table where the Lithuanian’s made to lean against the round-cut edge; held in place by a thigh between his legs. The unpredictability of Will’s movements is demanding. Impassioned. Hungry.

Neither lets the other go.

It’s been age-long since Hannibal’s shared his home with that of another. More so whom interests him for multitudinous reasons he has yet to uncover aside from their conversations, and dinner, up to now. The many times he’s provided mugs of coffee while Will hammers away at a keyboard or loses himself in the stroke of a pen: ever determined. Oh how he will savour this night. How he intends to render the author speechless as he brings him pleasure beyond any word that doesn’t bear his name. And then come morning – with Will worn and satisfied – shall rouse him with breakfast.

Will’s less then tender kisses abruptly stop, exploring touches slowing over the suit-clad torso. The older of the two catches his glasses when they fall; interestingly the lenses are fake; he pretends not to notice, dropping them in his pocket.

“Hannibal, this um, it’s, ah –”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s…” he tries to hide again. “I haven’t – done _this_ – in a long goddamn time.”

“We can stop –”

“Hell no, I’m just… out of practice.”

Hannibal draws him close, “As am I.” his vest is unfastened, _slowly_ , but not by himself. “We have plenty of time to... familiarise ourselves. However,” he pauses as the last is undone. “I would rather have you in the bedroom.”

Unexpectedly, Will answers with a deep kiss.

“I see we’re in agreement.”

“Hannibal,” hoarse, he wraps the tie around his fist; “ _s_ _hut up_.”

Unapologetically, he grinds his hips once more, cutting off an opportunity to get the last word as Hannibal reacts by fisting his shirt. _That works_. It’s a Herculean effort to make a space between them. One softly whines. He’s secretly amused when the baristo has to straighten his suit prior to guiding them down the hallway. The third door on the right can’t be opened fast enough.

Toeing off their shoes they stumble inside the dimly lit room, practically falling over each other, softly chortling. Hannibal steadies them before being pushed against the swaying door, his body slamming it shut, arms held wide by forceful hands. He can easily break from it if he so chooses, but decidedly plays along for now; curious. The brunets mouth diverts to his jugular, marking the skin with harsh kisses while tugging the purple shirt from his slacks. Hannibal slips free to loosen his tie, hooking a leg round his calf to bring him nearer. Nimble fingers work open Will’s shirt enough to circle the sensitive flesh, rendering a ragged breath.

Will’s jacket traps his arms in place when it’s yanked down to his elbows. In a lustful crashing of teeth and inquisitive tongues he doesn’t submit himself so easily: palming the man through the slacks as means of distraction. It works. Fighting himself free of the garment he falls to his knee’s – his jacket thrown aside – working the belt and zip. Before he can take him, the baristo curves down, cupping his jaw to kiss him first before securing both hands in his curls; his own head knocking back against the panel with Will clamping onto his hips as he performs. He’s near insatiable in his motions; knowing how exactly to use his tongue and remarkable mouth for more than language to arouse all kinds of sighs and clicks and groans.

Hannibal yanks him back up by the scruff of his collar. He cradles his neck, staring deeply into the glimmering orbs in astonishment and awe. A rarity. He would love to sketch his profile – but not tonight. They help each other out of the remaining clothes, throwing them onto a chair. Hands roam across flesh, running over abdomens and muscle tone, thumbs trace along sternums as their mouths collide once more; relishing the many ways in which they respond to the other’s touch.

Will’s pulled up the bed with him, pressing himself over his chest. Heart aflutter a sudden sting surges through him. Wetting his lips with his tongue he tastes blood on the lower one. Hannibal flips the positions, straddling him, fingers trailing up and down his thigh mischievously. His eyes appear subtly darker... _redder_. Will writhes beneath him – wrists getting pinned beside his head when trying to kiss him again – loving every moment that he’s denied.

His cell goes off.

Both ignore it.

Hannibal searches his scarlet face: to say that he’s elysian would be a severe understatement. Looming over him he plants a kiss to his crown. His brow. The bridge of his nose. He shifts down to tug a nipple with his teeth. Will works to escape, wriggling downward he attempts to snare his lips again but is unable when Hannibal holds him still; distributing his weight on top of him, eliciting a moan – his mouth just out of reach. Teasing him further Hannibal licks at the cut he made, tasting an unusual sweetness beneath iron, sucking it until the bleeding stops. _Exquisite_. He lets go of Will’s wrists; realizing he may be hurting him; though not in a pleasing manor. As an alternative his arms move to frame his head, shoulder blades tensing from the friction.

Will’s nails rake down his back. The pressure is growing unbearable. Toes curling, he holds the baristo’s face with a single hand but averts his gaze, hooding the lids. Struggling to form words, his breath hitches; letting out a whine.

“Don’t shy, Will,” he manages, husky; “the Aurora’s of your eyes are magnificent.”

“I –” he matches the richer maroons, holding him whole, “ _Please_ , Hannibal…”

Eager to fulfil is want he meets the corner of his mouth ahead of reaching to pull the lube and condoms from a bed-side draw. He prepares him for what’s next – all the while murmuring words of encouragement for him to relax. After further teasing and priming, Will is ready for him. They decide to try from the front: wanting to see each other.

Beading with sweat, Will’s legs comfortably hook over his shoulders, hands splayed on crimson silk either side of him. Cold from the gel, their kiss is broken as he lets out a gasp, throwing his head back against the pillows Hannibal adjusted for him. This is nothing like his previous liaisons or that regretful drunken fumbling in a _damn_ maintenance closet – sure, they were tipsy maybe at the start of this – but _far_ from drunk. Somehow he knows this is different, and hopes it’s the same for him, too. He balls the sheets with white knuckled fists.

“ _Will?_ ”

He just nods. It’s incredible. _He’s_ incredible. His hands are loosened by Hannibal’s as he moves them up, threading their fingers together, meeting lips breathing him life. Every movement sends ripples through his tightened body, muscles coiling with each perfect thrust. _Out of practice…_ The action becomes increasingly intense, keeping a comfortable pace until they synch with one another’s movements and involuntary jerks. Will craves more. When his godly baristo moves to kiss and nip at his inner thigh his hands slide away, enabling him to throw his own into the matting head of hair. Baring his neck and facing up at the darkened ceiling he struggles to resist grabbing at himself despite getting close, gasping an _oh, god_.

“Not quite...”

Hannibal’s enthralled by the sight of this man: quivering, moaning, _basking_ in sinful pleasure, hair a state, mind murky and buzzing, blood turning to liquid fire in his veins. The rapid pulsations when nuzzling the fervent flesh almost drive him mad, _tempting_ him until he climaxes; uttering words in his native tongue in which the other certainly won’t understand. His arms tremble to keep from falling limp on top of him. Recovering somewhat, he continues tending to Will, urging him to release but refuses, shaking his head, jaw locking, eyes clamping shut; unable to think anymore. He pushes back further into the dampened pillows with each action flooding his system in a wave of sensations. A little longer…

Then it’s over.

Both drenched in sweat, Will rolls his face to the side to catch his breath. His entire being is riddled with a delightful ache that he knows isn’t going to fade anytime soon. High on the feeling he doesn’t realize how quick Hannibal is to clean him up, peppering his chest with lazy kisses as he does so. Throwing away the condom he folds their clothes, placing them on the table. Will’s arm falls, inviting him back to the bed. Wanting to return the courtesy he asks for the cloth, dabbing his face with it at first, then caring for other areas. The baristo’s thumb trails over a peculiar scar on his left shoulder. They’ll need a proper wash in the morning. Discarding the cloth he’s immediately pulled to him, Hannibal’s cheek nestles over his calmed heart like a child listening to it’s melody. He hums. Limbs heavy. Cradling the man in his hold. They stay like this for a while. Exhausted, Will struggles against sleep, remembering the phone. His voice comes raspy when he curses.

“What is it?”

“My phone. It’s in my jacket pocket.”

Hannibal rolls, fetching it for him but he’s drifting off. He mumbles to check for a voicemail, telling him to just hit play before resting over his greying torso. He does and Alana Bloom’s voice emerges. She asks if he still wants her to check on the dogs on the drive to her shift in the early morning.

 _And yes I remember where the spare key is. B_ _efore I forget,_ she adds, _I know you hate folks making a fuss on your birthday but I wanna leave you something for when you get home. Text me if you need me to stop in, okay? Have fun_ _to_ _night, Will,_ _you’ve earned it_ _. Happy birthday.”_

The message ends. Hannibal replies for him. Putting it aside, he settles on his sleeping face, raising up the covers, shrouding him in warmth. If he’d known about the occasion proceeding their union he would have inquired his favoured desert or bought him a gift – or both. But he suspects their time together has been memorable enough – so far. He’ll prepare him something rightfully special tomorrow.

Luckily, Bedelia’s supply has not been wasted. The only consequence being it’s too soon for her make another donation given the generous amount provided. Subsequently, he’ll have to venture out of town or to find an unfortunate soon to prevent from running too low too quickly. Although he never has. Besides, Will made no inclination to his temperature falling at any point so it isn’t a concern as of now. It was enough.

_I would advise caution._

Moving to flip off the lamp coaxes a cracked hum from his sleeping form; utterly perfect in his quiescent splendour. Will repeats the sound when held closer – Hannibal’s chin perches on his skull cap – soon following him to sleep after he whispers:

“Sweet dreams, Will...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Egg:  
> As Ethereal is set in 2015 I decided to make Will’s birthday Saturday, August 29th – the same night ‘The Wrath Of The Lamb’ aired.
> 
> Thanks for reading Chapter 5 guys 😁


	6. Dulcet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is why I spoil you.”  
> “Because you wanted to see me in tears and fog up my glasses?”  
> “Because, mylimasis, in moments like this you allow yourself to absorb – and feel.”  
> He worries the inside of his lip; “Think I've felt plenty enough in my life already.”  
> “Not like this.”  
> Unsure of what to say, he kisses him longingly.  
> Hannibal’s voice melds into the tune, “Perhaps you will tell me someday.” the other edges nearer, shoulders overlapping. “It brings me great delight to share this with you, Will.”  
> Forehead to forehead, he breathes a contented sigh. “Why do I believe you?”

It’s early.

And if it wasn’t for soft lips trailing up his spine, Will wouldn’t bring himself to wake just yet.

Lying flat on his stomach the mattress dips either side of him. He groans and stretches from the contact pressing over the little knobs of bone, sensual in their slowness; getting higher, higher still, until reaching his nape. Foggy with sleep, he hauls round his head where they find his cheek, placing unto it a kiss. Extracting an arm from under the pillow he reaches back to bring him nearer, returning the affection; albeit lazily rather than seductive. A caress to his skin draws a shiver.

Ignoring the ache deep in his bones he rolls onto his back in mirthful acceptance as the baristo sinks onto his chest. He wraps himself around him as if securing a blanket to cocoon himself, yawning from the kisses being laid across his jaw. Post the usual ‘date’ he’d be made to shamble out the door before a slither of sun dared peak above the horizon obscured by buildings, typically at the other person’s behest because of work or kids. That or _he_ would procure a parting excuse, lest run the perils of wooden exchanges or half-meant goodbyes.

And he’s hardly good at farewells.

“Good morning, Will,”

“It is now...”

Hannibal sweetly meets their mouths, fingers soothing the still tender flesh. Waking to the sight of him lost in sleep was worthy of treasuring inside the palace walls. He considered leaving him that way but it would have proven too irresistible a task; and an unmannerly one to leave a note in his stead. He’s glad he didn’t. Will’s impossibly reverent when fighting to keep his eyes open for longer than an instant. The younger grunts, limbs similarly tensing and relaxing from the beginnings of friction. Hannibal smirks against his lips, “Although terribly rude, I may have to disappear for a time. An alert was sent to my phone of a possible break in at Divine Coffee, and rather than leave you questioning I thought it’s only fair to tell you first.”

Will stops.

He shouldn’t be surprised. For a long moment he let himself believe this could be _something_. He ought to know better now four years shy of forty. This has been far from the worst means of distraction at any rate, but a _hint?_ That’s the worst kind of messaging. He’s figuring out how not to make an ass of himself – harder still with a... well...

“I’ll get dressed and be outta your hair before you get back.”

“Pardon?”

“Really, you don’t need to be polite about it, if you’d rather I go then just say instead of –”

“On the contrary.” he interjects, “In fact, I was hoping to persuade you to stay for breakfast if you don’t mind waiting until I come back.”

Never mind. Honestly, overthinking’s so finely inscribed within his psyche it’s a miracle he hasn’t crafted a story from it yet – there’s an idea.

“Or, you can just ignore it.”

“I’m gravely tempted but unfortunately I can’t neglect my responsibility to the shop. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours – then I’m all yours.”

“Uh huh, you started this...” slipping a hand between them, Hannibal soughs. He doesn’t bother to hide the smugness in his tone, “I don’t think ten minutes’ll matter much if you’ve delayed this long already.”

“You hold a strong argument.”

“Hm, that’s not all.”

“Now, now, Will,” he warns, “what’s to be done about that?”

“Think I’ve got a few ideas.”

Ten minutes manifest into two hours.

Will wipes the condensation from the mirror after showering. He stays on his pinked reflection when spotting finger bruises printed on his hip. There’s also a suck bruise on his inner thigh and clavicle; mostly last night. On top of that he slept _fully_ for the first time in months with minimal dreams and no unexplainable wake ups at ungodly hours. No Chilton or writing woes. But above all, the discussions, food – touches – everything contributed. Waking up to find his company wanted and his time valued is un-fucking-paralleled. Thing is, if he’d met Hannibal in more recent years he doesn’t doubt his disinterest where past commitments are concerned. He wouldn’t of had the time for it either come to think of it. All primary engagements pre-Baltimore were dedicated to masts and saltwater, secondary equating relationships, amorous or otherwise.

Then again, Will was a different man in those days.

Taken by the reminders of the last ten hours he hobbles back into the bedroom. His clothes are still folded by the bed. He hasn’t taken the time to properly look until now. The covers match their crimson sheets, the fudge walls with ebony panel lining at the midsection contrast well with the mounted lamps on all sides. The glossy black dresser, desk and arm chair sit quite fittingly in view of a window hidden behind grey-black, Paisley curtains.Dressed apart from the jacket he brings to his nose a red cashmere sweater, and with it, inhales Hannibal’s scent.Not wanting his –

_Lover?_

_Boyfriend?_

'Partner' to return to unclean sheets (regardless of the causes) he finds fresh bedding in a draw, switching them over and tossing the other ones into a hamper. Throwing on the sweater, _it’s cold…_ he goes in search of coffee.

As the machine works it’s magic an idea brews in his head – not for the sequel, that’s dead in the water – the first outline. Dashing for the notebook in his coat he hovers in the kitchen; the drip steaming as it finishes. It’s pointless to start working on it again. It’s never gonna get published. Equally it would be a bigger kick in the teeth not to try, for himself if nothing else. It’s against his nature to neglect pen and keyboard both when left unoccupied for long. Having worked on it so closely he doesn’t need it in front of him to pick up where he left off.

 _Ryan’s pinch-point_ _was never_ _clear: develop relationship (_ _w/_ _Sarah_ _) further to avoid_ _future_ _setbacks._ That’s a start. _Revise home invasion scene_ _(Shane’s apartment)_ _&_ _contribute_ _an_ _earlier_ _f.b. to a_ _similar_ _event._ Might be useful. It’s refreshing to have ambitions for a concept he never got to improve when under Chilton’s thumb.

Minutes pass. In need of some air he makes for the olive door opposite the harpsichord. Dropping onto the patio, it’s spacious, a gathering of cut logs sit at the far side next to an outdoor firepit. Covering more ground the fizzling sea becomes clearer. Abandoning everything on the picnic table he edges toward the overlook of the surrounding cliff. Rock’s idle down below.

_Hell of a view._

Within walking distance of the coastline there’s a boat tied to a mooring on the west side; from here it’s the size of a pill. Swallowing dryly, his muscles begin to numb and tremor. He topples back, balancing himself on the table. Scarcely has he lain eyes upon any boats for the better part of a year and a half. A dizzying flash of blood staining the yacht cabin enters his thoughts. Wishing he couldn’t, he remembers vividly how messy it was: canned food and enamel mugs were left to roll and sway on their sides, his father’s flask dented among the scatterings strewn on the floor with a box of home-made lures half-made on the table. That’s where they’d spend most days listening to the radio as they worked unless the weather permitted them the deck.

Imagination – more so his creativity – is a blessed curse.

It’s beneficial in his work.

Yet hellish for his memory.

Notebook in his lap he configures a line or two before the trembling dominates the effort to re-tune his focus. Pinching the bridge of his nose he takes a breath, followed by a second, a third... _N_ _ot today._ _Please not today..._ Striking out the written fragments of thought he starts again. _Just block it out._ After a while he mellows out. Substituting most of his dreams has been obsessively writing _Through The Pines_. As piss-takingly tiresome as it was it’s kept them relatively minimal. The last nightmare he can account for was a month ago, thereabouts. Even then it was much of the same.

The blood.

An empty boatyard.

The crippling guilt and shame from arriving too late.

Adding to the misery it isn't abnormal for such dreams to awaken him in a cold sweat. Thusly ticking another justification box for one-night-stands to up and ditch before dawn breaks. From this he adds another note. A sound startles him causing the book to be flipped shut out of habit. He stands.

“Will, there you are.” he says on approach.

“Here I am. With such gargantuan windows I must’ve been hard to spot.”

“Oh, indeed. I had a feeling you might venture out here.” he lays a kiss to the empty palm, “Are you cold? You’re trembling.”

He half blinks, “Yeah, a bit.”

“That won’t do. Perhaps I can warm you up.”

“Do you mean with breakfast or…”

“After what you did this morning especially I _am_ anticipating for the ambiguous,” he pauses as if assigned with a difficult decision, “but, I believe I promised you breakfast.”

From a kitchen stool he watches Hannibal handling multiple things at once; currently a rolling pin, back turned with his frosty sleeves folded up. He follows the catfish on the cover with an index finger. As it turns out the break in was a false alarm. Hannibal starts cutting the dough into... _strips? shapes?_ He can’t tell from this side.

“I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of replying to Alana on your behalf last night. You were already asleep from the moment the message played.”

“I saw, thank you.” Will crosses his feet behind the metal rung. The edible mysteries are put into a boiling pot. “She said earlier that the dogs are fine. One of these days I’ll have owe her back.”

“In what way?”

“Fixing something probably. Either that or I’ll take Applesauce off her hands for a few days so she can take some time to herself. She wanted to know if I’d be willing over Christmas.”

Equipping some tongs, he says, “And who is Will Graham to turn down man’s best friend?”

“An even greater idiot when looking at the cost of keeping em’.” he simpers. “As much as I wanna stay I should be getting back soon. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

“I understand.”

Hannibal plates the golden leaves of pastry, gorgeous with it’s sprinklings of powdered sugar. Joining him on the opposite stool Will’s pleasure at the first bite is gratifying. He declares it as Zagareliai: a treat recipe from the land of his birth but also known in the likes of Mexico and Scandinavia. Suspicious, Will asks,

“What’s this for?”

He strokes the author’s thigh, “Alana mentioned your birthday last night.”

“Christ, don’t _you_ start. If you try to sing I might just stab you with a fork.”

“Would a kiss qualify a similar consequence?”

“Wanna find out?”

The taste is sweet, sweeter still without little punctures to his skin. The strokes move higher when accepting the challenge. Will grunts again, deflecting his concern over something being wrong; “Have I hurt you?”

“Please. I like a little rough play, y’know.”

Hannibal raises the sweater, uncovering the finger marks. He’ll have to watch for that in future. “Have I done this elsewhere?” He learns about the others. Apologising with a gentle look, Will’s baffled.

“You think this is the first time I’ve woken up sore?”

“I would think not, although, I _am_ sorry, Will.”

“Well, if there’s a fire-poker lying around I could always brand you to even up the scores…” he sasses, meddling with the tie, “if it’d make you feel better.”

“Would you lie down for me?”

“Lie down? Not easy on a barstool.”

“Not here,” he says with an outward nod, “the couch.”

“Why?” He’s winked at in response. Once there, the baristo sets himself between his legs ahead of easing up the sweater and shirt. He frowns, suddenly unsure of himself. “Hannibal, what –”

“Shh…”

Will’s cheeks flush when kindly kisses are lined along each little mark, working their way from top to bottom – on the hip he does four. _This is new..._ Sliding up to sit he takes Hannibal’s hands in his; tracing the knuckles with his thumb. He can’t help uttering a weak laugh, aware of his embarrassment. “I want to see you again.”

“As do I.”

“Would it be too soon to say Monday? After I’m done at work, I mean. Not that I won’t probably work then too – I’ll still be writing… but I’d also be there to see you. If – provided that there’s room, obviously.”

“It appears I will need to extend your table reservation.”

“I’ll try not to take up space all night.”

His smile radiates warmth. “Even if you do, nothing would please me more.”

***

He tells Alana about the book-deal’s premature demise over the phone. It’s wedged under his ear while bathing Myra, whom muddied herself in failed pursuit of a rabbit. “… and that’s when I told him I wasn’t gonna do it.”

“Was that before or after you called him a _prudish and repugnan_ _t_ you-know-what?”

“Before.”

She sighs. “So what’s your next move?”

“Actually I, _no,_ _shit_ –” the dog shakes causing the phone to fall and hit the edge of the tub, whacking onto the floor. Drying off on his jeans he puts it back under his ear, telling the animal to stay still. It’s not damaged. Bonus. He wouldn’t wanna fork out for another come payday.

“Will, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Dog’s being a pain in the ass. Anyway. I thought about carrying on with a story from way back. It’s not _Through The Pines._ In fact I never even named it. Luckily, all I’ve gotta do is refine the roadmap a bit then I can go ahead with the first draft.”

“You kept that one secret, huh? I’m not sure I’ll have much time to read it over for a while but if it’s any consolation, I’m close to finishing _ATOA_. I’m excited to find out what happened to Marcus since falling in the creature’s nesting place.”

“Good to hear, hopefully the build up’s worth it. And Alana?” draining the tub he briskly dries Myra’s fur. “Thanks for everything the last few months. Proof-reading, the dogs the other night, dealing with my pissy attitude…”

She laughs. “You're not that bad. Hey, how’d your date go? Asking what aftershave I prefer gave you away.”

“I’m that obvious? It was… well, it was something. It was good.”

“Just good?”

“ _More_.” he whistles off the dog. “I couldn’t quite fathom the fact I was even going until I got in the car.”

“Are you going to tell me who the lucky girl was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Oh? _”_ she pauses. “ _Oh_ , so –”

“Hannibal Lecter.” he blurts, answering the unasked.

“Wow. I should’ve seen that coming considering we talked about you.” something metal clangs in the background, “Nothing awful. You gonna see him again?”

“I did yesterday. But, um – this could – _he’s_ – what I’m getting at is – hell, I dunno…”

“Just look at it as another step, hm?”

“I know. Thanks Alana.”

~ some weeks later ~

Well.

Getting robbed at gunpoint when working the register is not how he expected the day to go.

He’s pretty level-headed for the most part, keeping a poker-face and staying calm. Jimmy and Brian are in the back so in all likelihood they’ve got zero clue what’s going on. As for Jack, he’s sorting through paperwork in his office at the order he not be disturbed. He’s been drilled on how staff are meant to respond to such a situation, reacting accordingly when told to step out and keep his hands above his head – up until the moment the gun’s pointed at Beverly, ordering she fill a bag with cash. It’s loaded. The rounds are visible.

“ _Hey, HEY!_ ” Will barks, “If you’re gonna point a gun at someone then point it at me!”

“Shut up! C’mon, I haven’t got all day.” the guy lowers the hammer on the revolver. She obeys, looking to Will wearily when catching the bag she’s thrown, “Hurry up, lets go!”

“Stop aiming at her.”

“Will, it’s –

“Shut the fuck up, both a you. Hey, don’t you take another step, okay? I mean it.”

“Kenneth?” The guy’s face is covered, but he knows that voice. “What – listen to me, you don’t wanna do this.”

“What did I say, huh?” the gun tremors, “That’s it, keep going, c’mon… c’mon…” he addresses Will again, “Don’t move. I don’t want things to get ugly.”

“I know you don’t. It’s fine. Everything’s okay, hm?” his voice broke on the hum. Keeping them up, he’s careful to negotiate, “Come on, Ken, you don’t wanna point that at her, yeah? It’s _Beverly_ , she never did wrong by you. But me, I – I ticked you off by getting in the way that first week, right? You, you wanted me outta the way ‘cause I screwed up the prescription listings, remember?”

“F-fair enough.”

Reprieved of his fears, he expels a shaky breath; the gun now trained on him.

“Jesus, Will. I’m almost done, don’t – we’re cool, yeah?”

Stomps from the hallway demand to know what all the yelling’s about when the gun goes off. Beverly ducks. Jack swears and bolts behind the door he walked through. As luck would have it, he’s a lousy shot; the bullet blasting far away from all three. The guy panics like he’s debating whether or not to fire twice. Seizing the opportunity, Will lunges at him and wrestles for the gun. He’s able to overpower him at the cost of a punch to the face. He knees Kenneth hard in the stomach, winded, he rips away the weapon, flipping the tables around so it’s _him_ aiming the gun. He orders Kenneth to turn around and kneel but in the confusion, tries to tackle him. Reacting on instinct, Will dodges it, striking the back of his head with the grip his attacker flies into a glass tower of cough syrup, knocking him out cold. The sickly liquid oozes over body and tile with a medicinal smell forming thereafter. A shaken Beverly grabs some cord out the nearest storage closet. Jack, meanwhile, calls 911.

Emptying the chamber, Will tosses the gun aside. Ignoring the stir in his stomach he takes his friend outside, hugging her in the street; thoughtless for the few passer-by’s staring at them. All he cares about is distancing her from the guy being tied to a railing. She’s more worried about the nasty, bleeding gash on his temple when they break away. While she’s cleaning the wound, Hannibal shows outside; apparently Jack called him too. The baristo’s maroons glisten among frowning features, wasting little time he inquires on what happened. They’re interrupted when police show up, arresting Kenneth on arrival.

Hannibal takes a semblance of pride in his partner’s victory, but does little to quell the private ire towards Kenneth’s actions. When the failed thief’s carted out the pharmacy he avoids Hannibal’s glare like a helpless mouse cowers from a snake in the moments before it’s inevitably swallowed.

Concluding with Will’s statement they clear him to leave, moving on to the rest of the staff in the break-room. Alone again, the baristo kisses his forehead. He’s instructed sit and tilt up his chin so he can finish patching him up with butterfly strips. While praised for protecting Miss Katz he’s understandably chastised for how he could’ve been shot or killed.

“She’s okay, that’s all that matters. Hey, look a’me,” he hooks an arm around him. “I’m alright, you see? It could of been worse. If he hadn’t crashed into Price’s display he would’ve of decimated mine.” he jokes.

“If circumstance tells us anything I would suspect it isn’t the display Kenneth should find worrisome at this time...”

***

From his favourite spot Will’s fishing at the stream – the actual stream – not the intrinsic which he’s yet to re-embrace. He’s itching to craft the fifth chapter but he needs to walk away for a bit. Take a breather. He tells himself there’s no need for immediacy anymore; Chilton’s not prodding him with a stick and he’s not burdened with making shortcuts and brash creative decisions. He’s got all the time in the world now.

After today.

For tonight he’ll be attending a performance at the opera; he couldn't really say no after finding ticket tucked into his receipt on Wednesday. Realistically? It’s not his thing, but he figures chalking up some new experiences here and there won’t hurt. Might even inspire him. On the other hand, suffering through herds of people he otherwise wouldn’t look at twice on any given day – insofar as to the snobbishness of well-off performance goers – is an unwelcome narrative to say the least. Come what may, there’s an ulterior motive behind the decision he suspects. One that strictly calls to his attention:

Hannibal likes him in a suit.

Moreover, the opera is the perfect excuse to get him into one.

Why does he think so? Their initial date was the last time he had. Granted that wasn’t a full one. There’s sure as hell no three-pieces in his house; _that_ he’s come to learn is a particular trend in Hannibal’s non-work threads. Wearing a suit to anything that’s not a job interview, wedding or funeral seems… flashy. It’s funny how most folk he’s come to pass in town go out of their way to achieve the _successful business man_ aesthetic or to show off their designer _whatever-the-fuck_ jackets or skirts, presumably, across all four seasons. He has to admit, though not aloud, Hannibal looks great in his. Adding to the evidence further, he’s been loaned a Tux for tonight as he doesn’t own one personally.

He walks home to ice the Salmon he caught. Once showered he gets to chores until the bell tolls for gearing himself up. Amazingly it fits, almost bringing 007 vibes in retrospect. All that’s needed is to grab a Luger and lunge a pose. Lastly he picks out a little box from a draw. From it, and cut to resemble stag heads, he attaches the silver cufflinks Alana bought him as a birthday gift. He faffs with the bow-tie but it’s as stubborn as he is. Nailing it eventually the glasses sheath into his breast pocket. He turned down Han’s offer to pick him up, suggesting he’ll meet him there to save time. Ahead of calling a cab he pats himself down: _Phone, keys, wallet, ticket…_ _damn it_ _,_ _where’s my…_ _the_ _paperweight on the mantle_. There’s gonna be dozens of people there. Too many eyes, voices and distractions until the music starts. He forages about the cupboard. He wasn’t going to but a finger of whiskey should help take the edge off.

His ride honks.

Time to go.

Hannibal’s already outside when pulling up across the street. There’s couples everywhere: the women are in pricey, pearl-lined dresses with the men in Tux’s identical to theirs. Dragging himself out the cab the driver leaves. Hannibal’s talking to some people with one of the unknowns puffing at a cigarette. His other half spots him but can’t will his legs to move. He wants to hail it back. Inconspicuous to the other’s he’s acknowledged with a smile that melts his core. Deep breath in, he finally trots over. Lightly squeezing his arm the newbies eye him questioningly.

“Hey… sorry if I kept you.”

“You look ravishing, Will.”

On come the glasses. “Your suit.”

“Better with you in it.”

“Well, are you going to introduce us to your friend?” one says.

Reassuringly, Hannibal’s hand falls to the small of his back.

“Will, this is Fiona Parsons, her fiancé Martin Broker and her to be sister-in-law, Alicia.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“My, you’re a handsome one.” Alicia parts her ruby lips, “We haven’t had the pleasure of Hannibal bringing along company before. Have you been to his coffee shop? It’s to die for, isn’t it?” he doesn’t answer. “Anyway, are you... here with a date, William?”

 _William? Good_ _god._

“I am the date.”

Amused, Hannibal makes gentle circles.

Her mouth forms an ‘O’ shape. “Now I’m jealous.”

“Oh quiet, you,” her brother says, “I’m sorry, she’s like this with most people.”

Hannibal excuses them while they still can. On the way inside he says, “My deepest apologise for that. They found me shortly prior to your advent.”

“It’s okay. Funny, not used to hearing someone admit they’re jealous of me.”

“I think you will find Alicia was jealous of _me_.”

Will takes some rare satisfaction in that.

It’s so damn bright inside the hallway. Good thing it’s less crowded once they pass around a corner. A grey haired man bids them good evening and requests their tickets. Confirming their place he ushers them through a gate of red rope. Will must’ve missed the part that said they have VIP seats. This is a bit much, things like this aren’t exactly inexpensive. At the top of the stairs they reach their dimly lit box. Inside’s a velvet Chaise. Don’t get him wrong, money pays the bills and provides for his dogs but at the end of the day it’s virtually unimportant. He expresses that he didn’t have to do all this.

“I felt it would be more enjoyable for you in a private setting. And, I wanted to.”

“I know, yeah, but this – all of this is,” he exhales, “I don’t want you to think that I’m just… I’m not _with_ you because...”

Hannibal doesn’t miss a beat, “I promise you, Will, if I ever suspected as such I wouldn’t have invited you to dinner that first night.”

“You don’t need to try and impress me with stuff like this is all I’m saying. Not that I don’t appreciate it. I do.”

“Noted.” he says, brushing his nose along a cheek. “Hasn’t the thought occurred that I like to spoil you?”

“You could do that back at my place.”

“I intend to… after.”

The Lithuanian’s palm doesn’t leave his knee throughout Act I. The cellos, violins, flutes and twin harpsichords within the accompaniment flow so seamlessly – effortlessly – each and every note beautifully played, not a single one out of sync in their grandiose arrangements. Reading up on the place recently an article detailed an unsolved murder case in the mid 1970s regarding a flautist that went missing; Benjamin something or other... It’s also renowned for it’s orchestra and thirty years strong lead composer. But above all else, the woman draped in sparkling gold floods his eardrums with her impeccable high notes, drawing water to blur his vision. Knuckling away the tears before they fall, Hannibal sidles closer, breath hot against his ear;

“This is why I spoil you.”

“Because you wanted to see me in tears and fog up my glasses?”

“Because, mylimasis, in moments like this you allow yourself to absorb – and feel.”

He worries the inside of his lip; “Think I've felt plenty enough in my life already.”

“Not like this.”

Unsure of what to say, he kisses him longingly.

Hannibal’s voice melds into the tune, “Perhaps you will tell me someday.” the other edges nearer, shoulders overlapping. “It brings me great delight to share this with you, Will.”

Forehead to forehead, he breathes a contented sigh. “Why do I believe you?”

For a time Will closed his eyes as Act 2 takes off in a grand cacophony before simmering into a sombre soliloquy, courtesy of the siren at centre stage. The vocals carry through him in waves of emotion to likes in which he’s never felt from having them sung out loud. They say the eyes are windows to the soul; if that is true then music is mere echoes of the heart. When they open again Hannibal’s own are entranced with his. Settling into Act 3 the rest of the performance plays as captivatingly as it began. Once it’s concluded both men, as do the hundreds of theatre attendees down below, give a standing ovation.

Whodathunk.

Maybe he’s got a taste for theatre after all.

As they make for the Bentley down the street Will links their arms. It won’t be long now until snow begins to fall. Seating themselves inside, they begin the lengthy drive to Wolf-Trap together – all the while he envisions the music on a loop as street lamps flicker past his view like fireflies.

***

Having put it off to organise somewhat this is the first time he’s brought Hannibal home. He asks him to wait on the porch so he can calm the perpetual barking from the other side of the door. Wedging through the gap he made several of the little hell spawns leap up, some try scurrying up his pant leg. The Lab-mix (Cal) sniffles at his feet. They obey his orders to stay and calls the baristo over; he extends a flattened palm for them to familiarise themselves with. All reject it. They start barking again. Winston snarls, positioning his coppery body as if to protect his master.

“Hey! Cut it out!” Will demands, confused. “I’m sorry, they ah –”

“They’re excitable, aren’t they?”

“That’s an understatement,” he pulls the bigger ones back, the others quickly follow. “they’ve never reacted to anyone like this, I don’t know what’s gotten into them. Careful where you leave your bag. Jesse, he’s the Terrier over there, he likes to rifle through stuff – sit, good boy – oh, and Cinnamon’s the Sheppard-Retriever, she’ll pester you for treats the first chance she gets. But don’t give in. Her innocent demeanour is almost criminal.”

Hannibal chuckles, “ _Cinnamon?_ ”

“Before I met you. You’re not getting credit on that one.”

“A pleasant coincidence, then. I’m afraid I have none on my person so there is little she can beg for.” The smallest of the lot’s also the first to approach him. Kneeling down, the dog licks at his fingertips. “And who might this be?”

“That’s Buster. I guess you could him the middle child.”

He can’t mask the sentiment in his tone, nor the feeling of home he garners from surrounding his life with them. The animal accepts a brief petting from Hannibal and patters away to the off-heaters by the fire; the other six shut up after minute – probably realizing he’s not a threat under their roof. He suggests leaving his things on the bed for now. In doing so, Hannibal walks as suavely throughout the space as he does in his own, complimenting it. Will tries not to stare.

“You’ve got a toothbrush in the bathroom,” Facing the standing mirror he tugs loose the bow-tie that’s irritated him the last hour, “it’s new – _sealed_ – I got it after work in case you need one for… whenever you stay over. _If_ you do – you probably brought yours anyway but –”

Arms wrap around his waist from behind with a peck to his temple: freshly healed. “Thank you.”

His pull is protective. Doting. Hannibal’s devilish grin reflects back at them and soon enough, buries his face into his shoulder; hands drifting apart to idle on his hips. Will’s heart beats harder. “I could make us somethin’ to eat,”

“ _You could_ ,” he purrs.

“Or, ah... or get us a drink...”

Leaning into it, electrifying touches glide back and forth over his torso.

“Hannibal…”

Any quantifiable trace of self-doubt vanishes into the feel of the baristo’s want for him. The fever rising in his length overrides the capacity of speech. He kisses his cheekbone, desiring his lips to meet his own – they do – securing Hannibal’s nape they join together again; noses colliding and sotto moans exchanging as a well practised hand drops lower. He turns with a gasp to hold his face, lower half's rocking together.

“I think your lips will satiate – for now.”

Will combats the impulse to rut against him when backed up to the mirror; but it’s no small feat with a knee pinned between his legs... This is how it begins. Unhurried, affectionate touches from both parties build up to a kind of desperation; though stray far from culminating too soon. The recent times they’ve been together he’s noticed a pattern: Hannibal holds back. Often when on the verge of lustful divinity that’s when digits claw each-others back, abrasive movements and quicker hands hotly peruse tingling flesh and sweat dampened hair – then, the actions become forgiving – the clawing would turn to lines, harshness alternating tenderness. It’s still beyond blissful, yet he’s not adverse to roughness at certain moments. Most mornings he’ll find the odd marking; typically in the same places but sometimes he’ll uncover a random one after it’s close to faded.

Adam’s apple bobbing, intoxicating passions trail his neck. He arches up for more. The dogs start barking again. Ignoring it, the seven don’t let up.

A man prowls past the front windows.

“ _Stop_ , stop...” he pushes Hannibal back “The fuck?”

“What’s wrong?”

“A guy just – the window.”

They rush to look but the man slips out of view.

“Stay here.”

“Screw that.”

“Will –”

He grabs a knife out the kitchen. “I live in the middle of nowhere, Han,” he grips the door handle, “what the hell’s a stranger doing in the middle of the night?”

Reluctantly Hannibal agrees and both storm outside, keeping Will close to him. The winds picked up since they got here. The dog’s yelps travel to the opposite end of the house so they stalk around back. They halt when a stranger is there waiting a few yards away – out in the open – _staring_. He’s tall, slim but fit with his hairline short and reseeding. Even from where they’re standing the stranger’s eyes are murky and gaunt. That stony expression sinister in it’s emptiness.

Scenting the air, Hannibal shields his partner’s stomach, easing him back a step but doesn’t look away from the stranger. “I need you to go inside.” he says, calmly as ever.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will, just do as I say.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he scoffs. “I’m not leaving you out here.”

“Calm your dogs. I’ll only be a moment.”

The man’s still staring. He’s not dressed for the cold.

Hannibal’s mind looms in possibilities. Although he’s never met the man personally, he knows the _smell_. It’s reeking potency – metallic – beastly. He’s grateful for Will’s inability to sense the dried blood beneath the yellowing nails. Even so, it’s reckless to have allowed the author’s company when determining such a threat. He needs him out the way. “Go. I’m not in any danger.”

A door knocks and slams in the distance. Will barley manages to catch Winston’s collar to stop him charging past, literally heaving him back as the barks grow fiercer, the knife dropping in the snow. _There’s something about him, something… familiar, almost…_ _w_ _hy is that?_ Through the struggle he can’t tell whether the stranger’s smiling or not.

“If you’re not inside in two minutes I’m getting my gun.”

It wouldn’t do any good.

With Will gone he takes a step, casually slotting his hands into pockets. “Hello. May I ask your name?”

“I wasn’t expecting someone else. Why’re you here?”

Another step. “That was to be my second question.”

“You’re like me. I can tell. Do you know how many of us are left?”

A final step. “Very few. A handful at most. Perhaps less.” he sniffs again. “You’ve fed – quite recently.”

“A deer. Strange… he wasn’t afraid.” the ill-skinned stranger glances at a window. “Is he yours? Seemed he wanted to protect you.”

“What he is is of no concern to you. Your name, please. I won’t ask again.”

“He doesn’t know. Interesting. See you around.”

The stranger turns, idling away into a thicket.

Picking up the knife, he waits before directing back. Will comes marching down the porch steps pulling back the bolt of a hunting rifle. He thought he was trying to scare the man off by implying ownership of a firearm. He really is full of surprises.

“Two minutes five.”

“Shut up, you okay? Where is he?”

“Gone. He asked for details on the nearest mechanic. Apparently his car broke down several miles from here. Judging by his appearance I would guess he’s abusing alcohol or narcotics.”

Will’s countenance is skeptical. He lowers the rifle, “You think he’ll come back?”

Hannibal considers hope a falsity mistaken for light.

“Unlikely.”

Yet, Hannibal hopes not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like there’s more to Baltimore than Will knows…  
> Thanks for reading, ‘till next time!


	7. Remnants Of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will stays quiet. Bidding them goodnight, the woman, radiant in her swan like grace, twirls on her coat and makes her exit. Even now, her elements of mystique still pull questions. He loiters on a chair back while Hannibal works his way through a table of eight. “Is she… has Chiyoh been struggling with something?”  
> “Why do you ask?”  
> “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happy.”  
> “I would hate to speak for her, neither is it my place, however, I will say is this,” he moves onto the next, a setting of five, “I long for her to value herself the way I value her.”  
> “You know her before starting up this place?”  
> “I did. Many, many years ago.” finishing the last, he pulls down the blinds, “I took her under my wing three winters ago, much to her astonishment.” re-approaching Will, he raises up his chin with two fingers, adoring the heaviness to the cool auroras unobstructed by frames; “I have half to mind to hire you.”  
> “What’s stopping you?”  
> “If an employer allowed his employee to misbehave and brood with little consequence... I’m certain it wouldn’t look good.”  
> “Well, I’m already screwing the boss…”

Hannibal’s been awake for some time. The arm slung over him frequently alters from slack to stringent like clinging to a raft only to lose it downstream, forcing Will to drift with the current until finding another. He’s talking again; hot breaths, broken mutterings and unknown names dampening the flesh of his shoulder. Hannibal twists to face him, folding his partner’s arm gently inside his chest, keeping their hands linked. His eyes are screwed shut, brows knit, lips dry, and mouth open. What transpires in his dreams most nights he wonders... It’s certainly nothing savoury. Kindly images wouldn’t evoke such reactions. When once having asked about them Will scoffed and said, _Nightmares are nightmares._ _And_ _I_ _don’t talk in my sleep_. Either he’s legitimately unaware or he’s uncomfortable by the fact. He picks the curls from his sweating forehead.

_What does he see?_

_Whom does he speak?_

_Where is he, if anywhere at all?_

Talking in one’s sleep isn’t unusual; many people do it; his wife used to tell of a name he himself would speak regularly over the years. She understood why and never gave ill-judgement unlike the opinion of her mother. Will grunts and squeezes. Her amethyst eyes and porcelain face shy away from him then, umber hair flowing as she returns to her palace room from the hallway streaked with sun; the fragrance of lilies and earth lingering in her stead.

“Shh, shh...”

Will’s grip loosens, the mutters soon cease, and the unconscious need for closeness leads him into his embrace. For a moment, perhaps naively, Hannibal entertains an impossible possibility: if they could have one day met, she and Will would have gotten along. She with her passion for reading fuelling the flames of Will’s own for constructing his contemporary worlds, and fables of yesteryear. In relation to that, the newer novel’s process is drafting smoothly from beta reading; insofar as to think she would enjoy it’s premise. One can only imagine for it to become real in some other world. Although – should the sands of time be flipped – should they seep through the central crevice of eternity’s hourglass – should time _reverse_ – perhaps a place could still be made for her in his world, akin to what was once upon a time…

Naive is right.

Hugging Will tighter he drowns the fantasy the best he can.

Rue aside, no such place exists.

_~ shortly after ~_

Across the room Will stands hunched over a desk wielding a pen. The lamp’s on but he’s having to squint when reaching the bottom of the page. _Pale_ _skinned. Dressed normally, not for outdoors (worn shirt)_. Turning it causes a glasses case to be elbowed to the floor. Picking it up, Han’s still sleeping when checking behind him. He continues. _Quiet / withdrawn. Deadpan face._ In it’s sudden inactivity the ink bleeds through the paper. _H_ _ollow eyes…_ The image hasn’t left him since the window. As he said, he lives in the middle of nowhere. Someone asking for directions is one thing, but to watch, no, _glare_ at them is… unsettling. Hannibal was nerveless and calm when they confronted him but that wasn’t exclusive to the ordeal; nerveless and calm are synonymous with his personality overall, compiled into a neat little package overflowing with jaunty self-assurance. He’s yet to witness him in any manor depicting less than serene – minus where he falls prey to puppy-eyes.

 _Where the hell have I seen yo_ _u_ _?_

Maybe it’s one of those subconscious recognitions. The brain registers every face that it’s encountered whether it believes to remember them or not so for all he knows he’s past the guy on the street or served him at the pharmacy. Nah, he’d know if he’d seen him at work. The store? What about –

“Will?”

He jumps, flickering back a glance, “Hey, sorry. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“It’s awfully late to be working.” he croaks. “Or early.”

“Why, what time is it?”

“Almost... half past four.”

“It is? Gimme a sec,”

Closing the book he turns to face the bed, lingering to admire what’s waiting on the other side of a sea of slumbering canines. Hannibal pulls himself up, back against the pillows, torso bare with the covers snug atop his hips. How he’s not freezing is anyone’s guess. He’s got a blanket around himself but can’t help chattering his teeth whenever the plug-in heaters break off. Walking to his own side is forfeit when the baristo catches his wrist to pull him inward: swinging his legs off the bed so Will’s standing between them, arms hooping around his waist. He meets Han’s shoulders for balance.

“Someone’s missed me.”

“I thought I was, what was the word you used?”

“Insufferable?”

“Insufferable. Hmm,” he says, eyeing the pink lines snaking Will’s wrists from the ties. “I don’t recall any complaints a few hours ago.”

“There weren’t any to give.”

“I detect a 'but'.”

His eyes roll, “ _But_ , it would be helpful if the safeword _you_ use was in a language I can actually understand… or a phrase at least.”

“I have yet to surrender to it, but you’ll know when I do. If I do.”

“Are you trying to prove my point? Don’t answer that.” Tugging at the blanket to keep it from dropping, Will laughs dryly in spite of maintaining an exterior of imitative boredom. “You’re just hoping I’ll ask you to teach me some more words aren’t you?”

“You know a few of the important ones.” he cants his head, “Some in particular you learned impressively quick.”

“Specifics, not sentences.”

Hannibal starts listing them and he just sighs, smirking he continues to say, “ _Flip over_ counts as a two word sent–”

“Okay, okay. Wise-ass...”

“So, what was it that drew you to slip out of my arms and over to a desk?”

He accepts the claim of a spontaneous idea he didn’t want to forget come morning; it’s likely; it’s happened before; but as it stands he isn’t usually gone long enough for the mattress to become stone-cold. After complaining he can hardly feel his fingertips Will scoots off to make cocoa. From the bed he observes kindred to how one would an art piece: each mundane movement and clunky gathering of mugs is like approving a brush stroke over canvas; from dropping the lid to a jar or neglecting to check if he’s already dunked in the powder, it’s as if watching a masterful image unfold in front him, unable to deter his gaze until Cinnamon’s tail brushes at his ankle. He pets her, lulling the lovely creature back to sleep.

Creeping around the rest of the animals Will reverts to his side of the covers, passing one of the cups. The baristo sets his own on the night stand to steal the blanket from his shoulders. He narrowly avoids scolding his tongue in protest but it’s met immediately with Hannibal wrapping them both inside it. He refrains from teasing _if you wanted to hug me you didn’t have to rob me of anything first_ because despite his palms absorbing the blistering hotness of the mug, it’s nowhere near as effective as hm.

“Forget about coco,” he lays back over his chest, “you’re a great heater.”

“So are you. And as much as I enjoy your little distractions, I can tell when you’re malingering, Will.”

“In my defence the house is an icebox.” he says, taking a sip. “I told you, I had something I needed to write down.”

“If you’re dwelling on our unexpected guest after the performance –”

“No. No, it’s just… I think I’ve seen em’ somewhere.”

“Where?” he asks, cheek to cheek.

“I dunno. God’s truth. It’s probably nothin’.”

Will doesn’t finish the cup. Forcing himself to move and set it down he falls right back to him. Hannibal’s fingers drift over the scar on his left shoulder,

“You never did tell the story behind this.”

“Bar fight.” is the blunt answer. “Shoulda seen the other guy...”

“A bar fight?”

“A bar fight.”

“What happened?”

Piecing together the order of events, Will looks to the ceiling, “I was drunk, or getting there, m’not sure how much I had that night, but I sure as hell felt it the next morning. Anyway, this guy, mid fifties, burly biker type passing through town came in and sat next to me. He started talking but I said I wanted to drink alone when he goes, _‘What’s your problem?’_. I told him to back off and he adds, _‘_ _W_ _atch your tone, kid. An attitude like that’s gonna get you into some shit.’_ and I brushed him off.”

“Naturally. And then?”

“Actually, it was more of a _shove_ than a brush… he pushed my shoulder back and nearly knocked me from the bench – stool – whatever we were on – then, I reacted. There was the sound of breaking glass and white noise from people’s chatter across the room. I don’t remember what I said or did but it must’ve ticked him off ‘cause before I knew it he came at me with a broken bottle and I felt this… this _numbness_ instead of registering any pain.” he pauses, ghosting over the memory made flesh, “I remember not caring about the glass in my shoulder but at the same time I tried to get him back. And somehow I did. Thing was, I was so out of it I couldn’t tell from left and right at that point…”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“You didn’t know me then – I’m glad.”

Hannibal’s lips meet his sternum, thinking better than to push. “Does that explain the other scar on your pelvis?”

“You’re joking, that thing? I’d be embarrassed if it were. No, I’ve got my cousin to thank for that,” he shakes his head, “idiot shot me on accident with a BB rifle when when I was fifteen. It had a _hell_ of a kick too.”

“You have a cousin?”

“We haven’t been in touch for years. Last I heard, dear ol’ Aiden ran off to... I think it was Paris with this blonde he was dating up in Bucharest. I dunno if they’re still there or if it’s even true, but, it sounds like something he’d do. He was always the artist of the family so Paris seems more cognate to his tastes.” he thumbs over a semi-faded line sidelong of the man’s left hand. “Your turn.”

“Polydactyly. I had little need for the addition. Not as exciting a tale as yours, I’m afraid.”

“And this one? Looks like you were stuck with something.”

His maroons glimmer from the pause.

“A parting gift from a friend...”

He frowns, “Do you have to be a cryptic bastard?” Hannibal encompasses their mouths, he all but melts. “Now who’s malingering?”

“I’m insufferable remember?”

“Yeah,” he kisses him fiercely, “lets see if I can fix that…”

Will proceeds to roll them over for round two.

Or three?

Three.

***

_~ The Du Maurier Residence ~_

“I trust that it hasn’t been easy to maintain the veneer for such lengths to what you are commonly used to,” Bedelia says from the arm of her seat, “how are the headaches?”

“Reoccurring. Now it’s when I try to sleep, not just wandering in the light despite protection. Once I’m left to rest I make a speedy recovery.” he turns from the window, the nightly view stunning in it’s ambiguity, “I haven’t endured them so frequently since becoming a new man. Then again in my younger days I was still learning to project.”

“Mental exertion from numerical on-goings at once has a tendency to do that. More so in your circumstances given the rarity of such a talent; I imagine it’s exhausting. Has suspicion arose from Will in any way?”

“None to my knowledge.”

“And as for the more, forgive my blatantness, the physical variety?”

His tongue rolls over crooked teeth. “A slight more challenging than anticipated. At times.”

“Even with the insurance policy I gave you early on, admittedly I wasn’t sure what outcome to expect. And yet your continued persistence in proving me wrong is formidable. Irrespective of that, the prospect of challenging isn’t unprecedented whereas this is your first partner in a very long time.”

“I have had affairs. Ours in Italy was particularly memorable.”

“I said relationships, Hannibal, not affairs.” even beneath the makeup, a light blush betrays her indifference. “As for you and I after we met, we weren’t compatible. Nor were we looking to see how such a coupling could work.”

“I wasn’t.” he corrects. “And _w_ _eren’t_ carries the implication that you believe we now are. Does it not?”

“You are my patient, I am not yours. And having been made familiar with this version of you choosing commitment rather than detachment, I can’t deny that it’s interesting.” Sweeping off the arm she picks up a journal on a shelf beside her previous patient files; reclining to her seat she crosses a leg over; he fixes on the object and takes a step forward. Asking what she has, she opens it on the calendar index, “It’s been three weeks since our last session. What’s really on your mind, Hannibal?”

The previous were cancelled in advance for reasons yet to be known to her. By what he’s discussed thus far, she presumes the reasons aren’t unimportant. For one, he’s frequented for a drink each week, implying he’s not short on time, withal he’s now returned to their regular schedule of half-past five Friday evenings. She learns his other stock is catalogued and hidden from anywhere Will could find them, but where he doesn’t say. He concludes at the mention of the stranger at Wolf-Trap from last week. Peaking fresh thoughts from her sharp mind, her slender visage tilts upward;

“You say he asked how many were left. What did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

“There hasn’t been a sighting in decades. Not that the general public are aware at least.”

“Unless you follow _T_ _he National Tattler_.” he points out, a reader himself. “Are you aware they still write articles ascertaining to the present? I suppose it’s only natural for sheep to become anxious over the scaremongering of hungry wolves – fortunately for them, they’re bogus.”

“I was not. I don’t read them personally. Does Will?”

He shakes his head once. “All things considered I believe Will’s troubled by the encounter. Although he doesn’t speak of it, when I brought the matter forth he tried to deviate.” adding what was said to him, she enquires to what else; “When asking for my input on chapter notes I happened upon details of the man’s description. He’s unknowing that I saw.”

“What if this new person of interest is aware of who you are, your past, what then?”

“You’re of the belief I am the target?”

“What is to say he hasn’t come to search for the most famous among you? Or at least hoping to. Especially after you told him the truth of your numbers.”

“Hmm.” he considers this. “That isn’t without conjecture. I can’t help but question, why now? This mysterious individual is the first I have met since the grizzly events of 1987.”

“How does that make you feel, Hannibal?”

A silence obfuscates the room into something heavy.

“Curious. And yet… if his interest lies with me, how would that explain Will? Besides the obvious.”

“It’s feasible Will noticed him on one of your dates given their openness at restaurants, walks and the like; therefore formulating a pattern he may have picked up on.” her patient nods. “Adding further it might have perplexed him as to your involvement with a regular person.” She puts the book aside when he stares at it. “If I asked why you chose to forego companionship up to now, would you give me an honest answer?”

“I’m honest with you.”

“Not Perfectly. You still haven’t told me why you cancelled our previous sessions. Or of your future intentions with Kenneth after his actions at Crawford’s Pharmacy.”

He flinches like a man accused, deliberate in the action; his folded hands haven’t moved the entire time they’ve been seated; “I tell you all you need to know.”

“Not really. You confide in me to an extent. You confided in me about your sister, and subsequently the events that divided you and Chiyoh. You confide in me concerning your present commitments. And now, you confide in me regarding this new player whom has ventured onto the board in which you play.”

Bedelia waits in expectants of stoicism: he delivers. She doesn’t weave into the topic lightly. If there’s a specificity to his life she’s never fully been granted insight, it’s of the time preceding that fateful night in France. He’s broached the subject only once – _years ago_ – notwithstanding it took more than two for her to pry at the shutters enough to allow a glimpse behind the veil of what came before; and when she did, it was concise. Because of this she recorded the few details he described into a file, like with any other patient record. A distinguishing quality about their patient-therapist relationship however is that Doctor. Du Maurier retired the same year they met, matter of factly, she was _already_ retired. Her careful words come at risk of being stonewalled;

“Why haven’t you confided in me about Leva?”

Hannibal says nothing.

***

All the pharmacy staff are pulled from their lunch shift prematurely for a meeting; Will included. The latest edition is also present: a trainee fresh out of school that’s assigned to be Beverly’s shadow. Will’s relaxed adjacent to the door of the break room, arms crossed while Jack explains the situation. He informs his wife’s been in chemo; apparently he wasn’t intending to announce it at all after the drama that’s manifested over recent months, even so, he’s being forced to lay the hand he’s dealt out of necessity. The half-moons under his eyes have increased in prominence these last few weeks.

“The doctor’s are taking real good care of her,” he says, “the reason I’m telling you all this is because she’s in the hospital this week for some tests but come her next go of therapy I’m gonna need to take some time off.” he lingers on Jimmy and Brian, “And after hearing some whispers about _the boss man acting strange,_ I figured I’d clear the air – as stuffy as it is.”

Will steps aside to let him past. Ahead of getting back to their duties the other’s exchange solemnly looks. Beverly says Jack’s been distant with everyone, not just him. She figured it was from all the bull Kenneth’s put him through. Come the end of the day Will’s about to lock up when he discerns that Jack’s not left his office. The last thing he’d want is to be cooped up in here all night with a rickety ladder for his salvation. Heading upstairs he rasps his knuckles at the door,

“Jack? Mind if I come in?”

“I’ve got a minute.”

Swaying it open, his boss sits slumped in his leather chair, glass of rum or whiskey in hand. Jack pulls out the bottle and another glass from the bottom draw of the mahogany desk, computer humming with it’s changing screensaver of him and who Will suspects to be his wife at different points of their marriage. It fades out to the next; it’s solely of her in a wedding dress holding a bouquet, posed in front of an ivory alter surrounded by pink petals and gold confetti at her pearly heels.

“If you were Price I might’ve jumped out the window...” he rumbles. He raises the bottle to which Will nods. “If you’re here about the health and safety reps coming in on Thursday,”

“Nope, just here for the amber.” standing beside the desk he takes the glass he’s offered. Jack knocks his back as he says, “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences since I started here, but... I want you know I’m here if you need somebody to talk to. Or someone to talk _at_.”

“I’m not looking for a pity party.”

“That’s not what I’m selling.”

“Then what?”

“Understanding.” he says, throat clicking in a fiery swallow. “I don’t know what it’s like to endure something like this, but I understand the fears that thrive from it, and the ones that come after if you feed into them. I’m not asking you to accept that. I’m just letting you know that if you need it, you’ve got a second pair of ears.”

Jack sighs deeply through his nose. His large eyes shine from welling up. “I was right to listen to Katz. Thank you.” he clinks his glass with Will’s before he’s distracted by the next image; “That’s my Bella. Perfect, isn’t she? That one was last summer when we visited her sister’s family ranch. Man to man... sometimes I think Bella loves the horses more than me. I kid, but she’s an animal lover.”

Her turquoise dress stands out lovely parallel to the sister’s green floral. Both have matching gold bangles.

“She insisted we stay in the guest bedroom that weekend, so we did. Her sister I mean. It was about half a day’s drive back home and Debbie made her infamous apple-pie so I wasn’t gonna say no.” Will mimics his fondness. “I hope we’ll have that together again next summer...”

Catching the subtle drop of his shoulders, Will knows he needs a minute alone. Downing his drink he thanks him and leaves the keys beside the glass on the desk; resisting the impulse to pat his shoulder on the way out.

Walking to Divine Coffee carries the choice of leaving him alone to hang over his conscience. Stopping in the middle of the side walk his sights train back to the way he’s come. Jack’s the kinda person that likes being left to play his own deck rather than dealing in another hand; Beverly (and now Will) excluded. Hannibal’s intending to invite him to dinner at some point during the festive season, apparently they do every year with Bella. There’s a thought, does he know? There’s no doubt what Will would want for himself in Jack’s position; he told Han as much from his jovial night at the bar...

What the guy sees in him, or thinks he sees, he has little idea. They’re opposites by far and large, no argument there. _I’m not exactly extroverted. Or mannerly,_ surfaces to the forefront of his mind. The singularity is that he’s picked up on his style to a degree; not by much; somedays he’s in a navy button down and coal slacks, other times a weighted coat, scarf and suit jacket; other days he’ll stick to his favoured flannel. Hell, whenever his turn comes around in decision of where they go he always opts to spend time with Hannibal _away_ from the thrown view of society. Back to the matter at hand, hopefully Jack’s gonna pull through on this – hopefully both of them will. With that, he keeps walking, not looking back.

Oddly, it’s dead at the shop. What’s more there’s sign stuck to the window:

 _Due to_ _maintenance issues_ _the ovens and coffee_ _equipment_ _are_ _n’_ _t_ _presently_ _supplied with power._ _Regretfully,_ _we shall be closed until further notice and we apologize for the inconvenience._

 _W_ _e would love to serve you once we re-open,_ _so do come again. Thank you._

On entry the bell chimes for the thousandth time. Chiyoh’s voice makes itself known in the form of a greeting behind the counter’s pastry display. Tonight it’s filled with an assortment of ginger edibles and a pomegranate sliced in two presented beside the plate; the vibrant, glistening beads of red stand out marvellously opposite the white grapes and chestnuts spread along the lining of glass. Tactful hands lift inside a red velvet cake smothered in a rich layer of vanilla buttercream, on the top is a ring of fondant, maple toned svelte leaf adornments with strokes of tan and gold to fit the prospering season. She’s masterful in her craft, Will thinks to compliment but she’s rarely receptive towards him – not to say she’s unfriendly – both interact where appropriate or more often than not, where unavoidable – rather she’s reserved. Frankly? She’s still as much a stranger to him as he is to her. He can relate to wanting to keep customers at arms length at any rate.

“I saw the sign. I could take a look at your fuse box if you want.”

“That’s not my consent to give, but the thought is appreciated.” she pokes her head round to the staff hallway then back to him, “Are you here to see him? I’ll go get –”

“No, no it’s okay. I don’t mean to interrupt. Just figured I’d stop by.”

“He should be finished soon, he’s on the phone to an electrician at the moment.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Chiyoh, it seems we won’t –” his feet root to the chequered floor, phone in hand. He smiles, “Will, I wasn’t expecting you tonight. I was about to inform the shop will be closed until Monday.”

She stops arranging, “Can Richard not make it?”

“Sadly not. He’s working on a job up state for a few days. You know how he enjoys a drive.”

“I will start putting the chairs back up once I’m finished.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take of it. Go home and get some rest, the shop will endure – as will you.” saying this, a glimpse of melancholy flashes her striking bronze features, “I’ll contact you if I hear from him.”

Will stays quiet. Bidding them goodnight, the woman, radiant in her swan like grace, twirls on her coat and makes her exit. Even now, her elements of mystique still pull questions. He loiters on a chair back while Hannibal works his way through a table of eight. “Is she… has Chiyoh been struggling with something?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happy.”

“I would hate to speak for her, neither is it my place, however, I will say is this,” he moves onto the next, a setting of five, “I long for her to value herself the way I value her.”

“You know her before starting up this place?”

“I did. Many, many years ago.” finishing the last, he pulls down the blinds, “I took her under my wing three winters ago, much to her astonishment.” re-approaching Will, he raises up his chin with two fingers, adoring the heaviness to the cool auroras unobstructed by frames; “I have half to mind to hire you.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“If an employer allowed his employee to misbehave and brood with little consequence... I’m certain it wouldn’t look good.”

“Well, I’m already _screwing_ the boss…”

Hannibal kisses him the way they had that first night, lips soft and warm and longing for intimacy, air exchanging like they are one in the same; when the feeling is returned, and _it is_ returned, he captures the sensation in a jar within his palace as if it were the rarest of butterflies at risk of endangerment, wholly unique in it’s design. When he pulls back it’s akin to bliss how light he appears: eyelids delayed to open, lips parting from near breathlessness.

“As I’m having to close,” he whispers, “can I take you somewhere?”

***

Leaving the car at the cliff-house, Will’s led down to the beach. It’s pitch black. Natures watery hiss comes and goes over crunching pebbles and shells. He’s been left in the dark on where they’re going and why. He trips up when stubbing the toe of his boot on something solid. A rock? Some drift wood?

Hannibal catches his hands, reflexes sharper than any blade from his kitchen, “Oops – watch for the steps.”

“It would help if I could see...”

The impacts of rubber soles over board is prevalent from here on, lacklustre thuds and creaks culminating when a motion sensing floodlight ignites the wooden tongue of path ahead; presenting them with a yacht moored at the side. His mouth turns dryer than the surrounding sands untouched by ocean salt.

“You said I owe you a fishing trip for the opera.” he says, hopping over the side and into the cockpit, “Should you choose I thought perhaps you would appreciate the option to fish from a boat.” unfastening the ropes he coils them from thumb to elbow, “But for now, how about a spin?”

He doesn’t answer. Busy hands stop, raising his gaze, he’s stunted at what he finds: his better half in a state of shock.

Will's heart plummets into his stomach. His chest constricting. Arms, legs, all succumbing to an onslaught of pins and needles, cognisance blurring with flashes of past horrors. His lungs betray him next; rendering themselves to rapid, uncontrollable intakes until his brain buzzes from lacking oxygen. A tingling numbness replaces the blanket of a million tiny stabs in his legs, his body weighing significantly more as gravity claims his fall. Hannibal leaps over, catching him in time to save his head from knocking to the ground. As if shell-shocked, a piercing note flatlines in lieu of the man’s voice when straining to read his lips. Locking them tight, the shrouds behind his eyelids reveal anything but blackness.

Splashes of scarlet.

Landsliding tins and mugs.

His father’s body covered in a sheet...

Panting frantically, his palms shove into the sockets, the sound of blood flooding his eardrums. Han’s voice breaks through;

“Listen to me, Will, you need to _breathe,”_

“ _I – I – can’t, I can’t… f-fu_ _ck_ _…”_

“It’ll pass soon, in and out, nice and slow. Focus on mine, let it guide you back.”

With legs either side of him, Will doesn’t realize he’s leaning back over his chest until calming words come again.

“Breathe with me, can you do that?” he soothes, easing a hand over his thrashing heart, “Come back mylimasis... that’s it, that’s good.”

His trembling fingers curl over Hannibal’s wrist to anchor himself. The rise and fall against his back helping him to calm. Vision clearing he risks peering at the boat again, the script bearing the name of _Mischa_. Dropping back his head, the baristo chins it as exhaustion reigns over his physical self. He winces from the knot cramping in his abdomen. The arms which cradle him gently squeeze, making him feel _safe_.

“I’m so sorry, Will.”

“You didn’t… I should’ve told… you.”

“Shh, it’s alright, it wasn’t your fault.” he rocks them, “Hush now. When your strength returns I’ll take you back.”

Hannibal Lecter doesn’t dabble much in regret, but this will gnaw at him for the longest time. And time, up until recently, was ultimately timeless _._ Mundane. Even nostalgia, a sentiment long thought lost in his bereavement of the past is an aspect he’s been self-analysing on occasion, an aspect somewhat unusual in his world – foreign almost in the years gone by. When Will recuperates, he helps him up, offering his arm for support as they leave the beach behind – over sand and stone and shell – up the winding hill of dirt and plants – distancing themselves nowhere near far enough from the boat, ruminations of tonight unlikely to leave the author’s mind for many-a-nights…

Will sips a glass of water in front of the fire, his baristo next to him on the floor. The pain’s gone aside from some stiffness in his shoulders and no longer idles in dizziness. Although nothing is said he can tell what’s being asked no matter the neutrality in Hannibal’s face. _Would he leave if he tell him?_ He never has to anyone beside Beverly and Alana. After the beach especially he thinks he’s owed an explanation of some kind. _How the hell does someone even begin_ _?_ the water’s put behind him. The girls weren’t there at the time. They found out on the news a day or so later, calling him with tearful condolences; they knew Jonathan too. Whipping out his phone he hangs his arms over raised knees, digits rotating it. _You know he won’t do that._

He unlocks the phone.

He finds the photos under, _Shiloh:_ _Spring 2013_

“I wanna show you something.”

Hannibal watches him flip through images of Cobles, Cabin Cruisers, Bow Riders, Dinghys and smiling faces; the sails varying in style through frost with turquoise spirals to look like waves, lilac and midnight blue lining the edges of grey, to plain black or white with the names painted or stitched. There’s man of about fifty and others posed in front of the same two vessels, benches, signs, some of a German Sheppard (he learns she belonged to Will’s neighbouring sailors, an elderly couple: the Pembrey’s). Very few images contain Will himself. He’s not much younger, but his hair was shorter, stubble thinner, often in Henley’s and jeans, seemingly lost in concentration when fixing a damaged mast, in another his denim shirt is smudged in motor oil and looks to be fanning his shiny, blackened fingers like he’d caught himself. He eventually stops at one titled: _Celebrating Antlers._ It’s of Will and a man raising their beers, arms around the other’s shoulders with near identical half-grins pulled high at the cheek, partially in the background show a man and woman in opposite corners of the pontoon. Will explains,

“As a kid I followed my father through the boat yards of Biloxi and Greenville to the lake boats on Erie. You remember when I told you I moved around a lot?" he swallows, “When I got older we circled back to the one you see here. We didn’t live on the yard, we had a place, small and quiet about an hour from it. I moved out not long after but we always spent summers on the boat. _Shiloh_ , her name was.”

“And your mother? You never speak of your parents.”

“We have that in common.” he says, “Never knew her. And he didn’t have a lot to say about her. I don’t know where she went or if she’s even alive, I never thought much about it ‘cause he was always there.”

“What happened at the beach, was that influenced from your time at the yards?”

“It’s because I left him at one.” his voice turns low, burdened, “I was outta town to sign off some contracts in the last phase of publishing Antlers – we took this the day before. I was gonna be gone for a few days and… somehow…”

Hannibal stares at the flames, making it easier for him to speak.

“I got a call at my hotel, woke me up. Mrs. Pembrey, Joanna, she, um, she told me what happened.” at threat of tears, his lashes flicker like wings in flight; he expels a drawn, jagged breath, “My dad was... my dad was _murdered_ , Han...”

His direction springs back to Will.

“I wasn’t even gone a full night. I took a cab back to Louisiana, didn’t care what he’d charge me – it was the longest three hours of my life. Joanna, she, she begged me not to go inside our cabin. I ignored her when seeing drops – red drops on the base of the door... I didn’t believe her ‘till I saw the cop inside looking under the sheet covering him up. He grabbed me before I could reach him. He said not to ‘disturb the evidence of a crime-scene’. He wasn’t _evidence_ ,” he hisses, “he was my _fucking father_.”

“Will –”

The facial muscles contort as he stutters, “B-blood was streaked across the floor, some on the curtains, the table… they never caught the guy that did it. When I dream I, I imagine I get there when it’s already dried. I search but can’t find him. Can’t find anyone. Sometimes he… he’ll call out to me. Asking me where I am before he starts screaming…” throat tensing and rasping his speech, his voice cracks, the rapids rolling down his cheeks, “I should’ve _been there_ , I –”

Hannibal reaches for him, his head burrowing into the stock of his shoulder. He’s uncaring for the crescent moons digging into his palm as Will sobs. The man’s entire being trembles again, choking on air as he clutches to him, cold patches dampening the shirt. He strokes his hair, whispering comforts. Will’s other arm throws around his side, gripping harshly at the fabric.

The phone falls between them.

The screen fading to black...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s something bigger at play here… what will happen next?


	8. The Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The skin around it is redder this time. Inflamed but not infected. Running her wrist under the cold tap the shot of ice generates a shudder. She lathers on the cream. From the butterfly box she takes two bottles of pills, cracking off the caps she swallows three. A knock snatches her attention.  
> how
> 
> An hour early, that would be the weekly groceries.
> 
> Popping a fig between her lips she saunters into the hallway, rolling down the sleeve. Strangely no-one responds to her calling out, Who is it? Because of this she grabs the pistol from her purse hung on the wall, holstering it in the back of her belt. After what Hannibal told her about the stranger she thinks it’s best keep it out of the safe and on her person if a surprise should emerge outside her door... the knock comes again. Opening it she finds not her usual deliverer, Leon, but a tall and slender woman with raven hair tightly pulled back into a bob, her gloved hands formally held at her front.  
> “You must be Chiyoh Murasaki.” she deduces, “How did you find me?”  
> “Perhaps we could talk inside.”  
> “Alight. Please, come on in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this chapter details injury to animals, not super graphic...  
> 

_~ th_ _at same night_ _~_

“I’ve never… I’ve never said what happened out loud before. The girl’s knew already so I didn’t have to tell them. Most nights after the funeral I would numb the pain with whiskey but refused to talk about it for over a year. He died nearly two years ago but 2014 was the hardest…”

Hannibal continues to hold him as he talks. Both watch the flames dance amidst little pops and crackling logs.

“Beverly was the first that got through to me. She came to get me after hearing about a bar brawl – a different one – in that one I managed to fracture my wrist from throwing a swing at the guy. I remember what she told me so clearly: ‘What would Jonathan think if he saw you hurting yourself like this? I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself… please let me help you, Wills. Please’.” his heart sinks from the weight. His closest friend’s visage is forever sealed within his memories with her tired, woeful eyes appearing as glimmering marvels, “I couldn’t bear how she _looked_ at me. It was like I was a stranger to her… and… and it crushed me. It hurt knowing _she_ was hurting because of me, not just for what happened.” he swallows, “No matter how bad I got she was always there, encouraging me to get back up when I stumbled. If it wasn’t for Beverly Katz, I dunno where’d I’d of ended up.”

“Miss Katz has always been pure of heart.”

“An god knows I don’t deserve her. As for my father… if I hadn’t of left him in the first place he would still be here.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Will. Don’t fall prey to guilt over a situation out of your control. You couldn’t have known.”

He palms at watering eyes, puffy and raw from… he doesn’t know how many hours. Part of him wishes he’d never opened his mouth. To pretend up is down, black is white, and Shiloh never made into Jonathan's fated cradle. There’s no coming back from this. The truth is out, and he’s been reduced to the tears he’s denied himself since that night. Prying himself back he says,

“I’m sorry, I warned you I was a mess –”

“Will,” catching his wrist he stops him from standing, “ _never_ apologize for what you feel. Telling me was costly for you, and I thank you for trusting in me to hear it. How do you feel right now?”

“Like…I feel like I’ve given blood from how exhausted I am.”

“Understandable. Come here, I’d like to try something.” Will shuffles 90 degrees to lie back, his head in his lap. “I want you to close your eyes for me.”

“Okay. What’re we doing?”

“An exercise. Clear your mind. Breathe. Now, imagine you are standing in a chapel, it’s architecture severe and beautiful and timeless with it’s tall pillars and centuries worn frescos. A single skull is graven into the floor in a disc of red, imagine yourself standing on it. You are alone here for the moment.” his voice softens, “The chapel’s ceilings are high, the surroundings vast and struck with the golden glow of a thousand candles flickering over empty chairs and a statue of bronze either side of the steps leading to an alter. There is little sound, merely a muffled buzz akin to being in the womb alongside your beating heart.

Are you there now, can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Hannibal bends to meet their foreheads, his partner’s eyes still closed. “Within these walls are thousands of rooms and miles of corridors awaiting your visits. The resonance migrates through your feet as you walk through the iron gates to the far side of the foyer, how they creak when you pull them open before returning to silence; this will take you to the main corridor. What do you see?”

“Endless doors.” he mutters, “Each of them separated by a flaming torch. The murals are gone, wait, not gone – they’re above me on the ceiling.”

_That they are._

Hannibal smiles to himself.

“Within these rooms lie many things: archives and great libraries resembling that of the Capponi in Florence, chambers holding harps, cellos, theremins and harpsichords, in others beauteous works from the Renascence and times of the ancient Greeks. Some are like ordinary rooms: chairs, fireplaces, bookshelves and desks with the scent of freshly used ink and crisp parchment on the surfaces.

But, in some, you may enter rooms that expel memories from their individual collection of colours, flowers and hanging pictures. For now it’ll be only from memories you and I have made.” a hand glides over his own atop the author’s heart, “Should you walk to the end you shall find an elevator similar to the iron gate, this will take you to any floor you wish to go.”

“This your memory palace?”

“It is.” he straightens, cradling Will’s head he brushes a thumb over the scarred temple, “I once told you my mother’s imago is forever preserved, alongside many others, in here. Throughout my life the image of my loved ones have never decayed within my subconscious – and neither will yours, Will. One of these rooms is your own, just as they have theirs.

When you feel alone, when you feel lost or helpless, if you have nowhere else to turn – if not to your stream you will always have the palace.” he’s met by bloodshot blues, they’re slow to reopen. “I’ve discovered you there. All you have to do is turn around. This way you know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me.”

Giving a small, quivering smile, Will hesitantly grabs his shoulder, pulling him down into a hug.

_~ a few days later ~_

Since confessing to the trauma of loosing his father Will’s kept quiet at work; engrossing himself with any and all tasks thrown his way, no matter the tedium, rather than offer his thoughts the freedom to roam too far astray.

As for Hannibal, he’s out of town on some business proposition for D.C. and should be back in a day or so.

After telling him, Han requested he stay for a few nights, providing him with an anchor of sorts while giving him the space he needed. If it were anyone else he would’ve turned the offer down, bitterly viewing it as charity. The thing was, the way Han held him, encouraged him to relax, recited poems heard from childhood while both made dinner, then later going to bed like it was a typical night between them – keeping things relatively normal for him – he felt assured Han _wanted_ him there, not because he felt obligated into doing so.

Despite his recent, lesser pull for physical affection to the point of dodging the odd kiss, he slept better, too. It hadn’t occurred how cathartic opening up could really be. To just... let it out… the burden weighing on his shoulders made lesser for a long moment. He refused therapy after the incident. The closest he came to it was when Alana questioned his motivation to continue re-outlining _Through The Pines_ so soon after.

Speaking of Alana Bloom, apparently work’s piled up since visiting her brothers. For a time she would make house calls, showing up holding cups of takeaway coffee and breakfast muffins ahead of dragging him through the streets of Louisiana asking he give her a tour – he knew it was meant to promote the chance of opening up to her.

It almost worked.

Almost.

Instead it was reserved for Beverly, though he wasn’t vivid in the details regarding his emotional state; ensuring to keep it bottled while saying just enough not to overflow what leaked from the top. He still provides little when either happens to wander over the topic.

Until the other night with Han.

Dressed from this mornings shower he’s nursing a mug of black coffee when distant cries come from outside. Thinking it’s his imagination he sups again. The playful barks of dogs and rustles of dead leaves abruptly stop when the cry comes again, erasing the presumption as fast as it had come. Leaving the mug he rips his coat from the wall peg and hurries out onto the porch. Six heads and tails twist and turn in a flourish of mismatching colours, several of them circling each other as well as the tree, the others facing in the direction of the sound.

Winston’s missing from the pack.

Will whistles to beckon them inside. Unsure of what he’ll find he grabs his gun, locking the door behind him. It’s unlike Winston to split from his adopted brothers and sisters. Something must’ve tempted him away. A squirrel perhaps? He enjoys chasing them, not that he’s ever caught one. He found a hedgehog last week when Will took them on a walk across the flat-fields; he didn’t harm it. Alternatively, the coppery hound laid in front of it, staring inquisitively at the hibernating carnivore. Will eased it into his hands to move it from out the open and over to a rock riddled tree, out of sight in the safety of the surrounding overgrowth.

He hopes this is another like that...

Jogging into the darkened woods it’s dominated by boots crunching of over boughs, rocks and leaves, the endless supply of twigs snapping under his soles. Toggling on the flash-light attached to the rifle barrel a beam illuminates the uneven earth and towering trees closing in on his world, casting great shadows; emaciated in their foreboding. Calling out his voice bears a hollow quality like that of an echo. Stepping over roots they’re as thick as concrete and speckled in lichen, the half-dry soil cold beneath his rubber clad feet, patches are hardened from the early chill. Pointing the gun in every direction there’s evermore plants and trunks.

The stream’s not far, but nowhere near where the first cries were born. From the undergrowth a trio of mice scurry past. A skirmish of leaves draws him further inland, the branching spindles looming above appearing like fingers leading the way forward; goading him. His trigger discipline is reputable despite the tension in his grasp. The harrowing thought of finding him injured is brought to the forefront. Little raises fear in him other than harm befalling someone he loves; he’ll sooner become tempered from the _inconvenience_ of fear in place of actually growing fearful: intrinsically the incident surrounding Kenneth’s robbery being a mix of alarm and protective anger.

“ _Winston,”_ he calls with a whistle, “Winston, where are you?”

A high pitched bark’s severed by a whine. Spinning around he’s unsure where it came from until another recalibrates his focus. He avoids tripping on an obscure distortion of tree roots. From running and ducking under twisted branches he’s brought to a standstill; he frowns, lowering the rifle. Winston’s lying by a tree, all four paws scrabbling at the dirt in attempts to stand. His innocent eyes big and sparkling when Will rushes over to comfort him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tremors. His hand levitates over the wound on his neck, “you’re gonna be fine, I’m taking you home.”

With no animal stalking up to them, with no growls or hisses ten or twenty feet away, he slings the rifle over his shoulder to bundle the dog into his arms; he’s licked in response. With the coming of dawn he carries him for about fifteen minutes when bushes rustle from his left at a distance. He backs up behind a tree. Frequent stabs lay into the mud, possibly hooves. Coupled with it is a violent flapping of wings from a murder of crows; shrouding patches of sky in constant flickers of black. _What the hell’s going on?_ Peering from the trunk he spots a deer hobbling towards them – it falls limp with a pained groan.

Approaching it, he lowers Winston to the ground out of kicking distance, the deer’s chest constantly heaving in an un-breaking rhythm. It’s front thigh is darkly bloody and mauled.

It’s been running for a while.

He shushes it, making gentle strokes up and down it’s neck, over it’s tanned belly. Looking into it’s large, raven black eyes, Will’s mind ushers comparisons to Winston’s. The deer’s hind legs spasm when it blinks, the next more like a twitch. Soothing it some more he eventually rises to his feet; grabbing the dog he subsequently drops him home. Knowing it doesn’t have the strength to move he makes the decision to go back. With only one way to truly help it, the rifle nudges off his shoulder.

They exchange a final glance.

And with it, the bolt’s pulled back…

Packing Winston into the car his phone’s sandwiched under his jaw.

“Jesus, is he okay?” Beverly asks, “what happened?”

“I dunno but it looks like an animal got em’. You sure you can cover me this morning?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll tell Jack.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.” Will says, petting him.

“Are you taking him to Alana?”

“Can’t, she’s up in Minnesota today. It’s just Matthew Brown at the vet.” shutting the passenger door he gets into the driver’s seat, “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to him.”

“M’kay, good luck.”

***

To put things into perspective, his friend’s assistant is a strange guy...

Sometimes Will wonders if he ever leaves _Bloom’s Veterinary Practice_ , close to never he’s seen him away from the building or even in the main reception. Stranger still he doesn’t know how _not_ to stare from across a room; his beady eyes tending to fixate on specific points of interest, person and animal alike. They’re distracting at times and unsettling in others. Adding to the oddity, his expression is always one of two: predictably smug and amused, or deadpan and obscure. Today he finds is the second when entering the picture at the waiting room door. His arms are beyond wrist deep in white coat pockets, head lazing to the side as he says,

“Mr. Graham, this way –”

Will passes the other waiting pet owners: a young red headed girl beside her father, in her lap’s a rabbit in a peachy pet carrier. Brown sways ahead of him, instructing to lay Winston on the examination table while he types something into a computer. The dog settles. Will keeps him from scratching at the wound.

Brown returns bearing a clipboard, circling the table once he scribbles at it. Putting it aside in exchange for latex gloves he spreads the fur carefully. Winston’s ears sag with a whimper,

“Easy bud, I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he croaks, “where’d you say he was, Mr. Graham?”

“Middle of the woods out in Wolf-Trap. I didn’t see what attacked him. I found a deer too… there wasn’t much I could do for her but put an end to her misery.”

“You shot her? Just as well.” the shabby haired man says. His arm swings back, pulling in a trolley, selecting gauze, antiseptic, a paper towel and surgical clamps. They’re left next to a kidney dish at the top. Inspecting closer he spreads the fur again, carefully dabbing around the infliction, “Hm. Whatever bit em’ had a mean set of teeth.”

“Could it of been a wolf? Figured they’d keep attacking him if it were, unless he ran off before they could.”

“It’s deep enough sure, but it weren’t. The one’s you’d get down your way are Greys and Reds. Not anymore though.”

“How come, did they migrate?”

“The luckier ones did. Wolves were thoroughly rooted out of Virginia over the last hundred years or so, most of em’ were hunted and trapped for their fur or ‘cause farmers saw ‘em as a major pain in the ass, ‘scuse my French.” he cants his head, “The closest you’d get to finding one would be Reds in North Carolina. You’re right about the multiple thing. Attacking wolves will keep goin’ at it to take down whatever they’re pursuing,” he points to the markings, “this weren’t them, I promise ya that.”

“That’s your official hypothesis?”

Removing a glove with a rubbery _thwack_ , Brown takes out his phone to photograph the now barely bleeding wound. Using a stethoscope he spares him additional worry, stating Winston’s heart and lungs are functioning more or less normally, if a bit weaker from fatigue. Replacing the glove with a fresh one he starts patching him up,

“This is near identical to others I’ve treated this week. Winston here’s the third or fourth in two days, difference is the rest were all farm animals. Yesterday I got called out to examine a cow a few miles from town – she wasn’t as lucky as your rusty furred friend here. Still, not surprising when you think about the stories.”

“Stories?” Will says, “What are you talking about?”

“You know about the animal deaths recently, right? It’s been on the news a lot.”

He shakes his head, looking away when the beads lock on him,

“You seriously haven’t heard, huh?”

“Been a little busy. Not really had the time to tune into the news.”

Finishing with the dressing, Brown rummages in his pocket for doggie treats. He eagerly sidles over to Will; getting a little too close for his liking. Bizarrely, his voice slips into a croaky utterance, a partial lisp, his breath warm and bitter against his cheek,

“Mr. Graham, you mentioned a deer to me earlier... what did it’s injuries look like?” he’s told it was older, more severe. “I see. Lemme run some tests in case of an infection. Luckily he didn’t lose much blood so I won’t need to give em’ a transfusion, but to be on the safe side I’ll need you to keep me updated, I’ll do the same for you if we get any more cases in your area.”

“Okay, that’s fine. How long you need to keep him?”

“An hour, maybe two. I’ll call you when I get the results over the next couple weeks.”

When they’re done he’s allowed to take him home. Brown files a prescription of tablets for Winston to take for the next fifteen days. On the way out he says;

“Oh, and Mr. Graham? You should be proud, your dog’s a trooper. He managed to escape whatever went after em’ before he could wind up like the others. And that deer o’yours.”

“Out of curiosity, how many of the four pulled through?”

“Just him.”

When Winston’s comfortable among his siblings Will makes it back to the pharmacy for the rest of his shift. Beverly meanwhile goes home. He’s tasked with cataloguing this weeks meds delivery. Carting through the hallway with boxes stacked on top of one another he unloads them onto shelves and hangs the plastic prescription bags over alphabetised pegs, stopping briefly to consult with Brian Zeller over a mix-up the previous day involving the trainee. When complete, the third and final box is specifically labelled as _Must Keep Refrigerated Prior To Opening_ , it’s carried to the storage room. Jimmy Price knocks on the open door when storing a handful of vials.

“There you are – Will, do you know any blondes?”

Baffled, he twists around, “Can you… be more specific?”

“Blonde, as I said, pretty face, average height, carries a plumb leather purse,”

“You just described every blonde I knew in college.”

“Hold on, you went to college?” he squints doubtfully as if a blind man, “Never mind, anyway, where was I?”

 _Good_ _god, spare me.._ _._

“Confident, sorta mysterious, y’know the type? Dressed in all blue, classy like a CEO looking to make an investment –”

“ _Price_ – is this going anywhere?”

“You asked for specifics...” he reminds, “Alright, I’ll cut to the chase, a woman swung by a minute ago to pick up a combined one-time order of vitamins and blood pressure pills. _And_ ,” he dips into his jacket pocket, pulling out a black business card, “she said to give this to you.”

“To me? Did you give her my name?”

Jimmy passes it to him, telling him no, also mentioning she didn’t say _how_ she knew. Keeping it in hand he leaves the storage room, rushes down the hallway, makes a quick turn to the main area, past the front desk and out the entrance. Apologizing when bumping into someone he stares down the busy path. Traversing down the street he spots a woman up ahead matching Jimmy’s description.

Her hair’s striking and wavy, ocean heels long and polished over smokey tights, coat matching with a purple sash and buttons on the back. She’s stepping onto a bus but lingers to turn her head, here their eyes align. Unable to recognize he walks on, hoping to confront the stranger. The woman doesn’t grant his want and hops on board before he can make it so much as five feet further; the tires hissing as it chugs towards him among cars, dust and chatter.

Remembering the card he flips it over:

_Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, Professional Psychiatrist, M.D._

“Okay, who the hell are you...?”

***

In recent years Bedelia Du Maurier has lead an abstract life.

With an admirable reputation in psychiatric circles, she is regarded as one of the better by her peers for past work. Generally however, it isn’t the norm to uphold the status of ‘retired’ when continuing to support a patient as consistently as she has regarding Hannibal Lecter; once a doctor himself. Being no ordinary subject of evaluation his file remains separate from the rest. Her psychiatrist friends, which are few and far, sometimes inquire to why she hasn’t referred him to someone that isn’t officially inactive in the practice.

She is yet to answer truthfully.

In the corner of her study at the height of a desk stands a snowy, three draw filing cabinet secured with a lock. Within the lower two is an abundance of former patient files neatly ordered, each folder coded in various pastel colours depending on the letter of their first name. _A_ through to _D_ for instance is in white, _E_ to _H_ is grey, _I_ to _L_ is turquoise, _M_ to _P_ is lilac, the list goes on all the way to _Z_ ; omitting that of _H. Lecter_ , which she keeps in black. His one, along with journals, notes, tape recorders chockful of analyses, all of these reside in the top draw.

Presently the good doctor is sleeping on her couch, earlier having drifted from reading. Musical notes from _Vivaldi_ softly float from kitchen to living room, stilettos lie abandoned beneath the coffee-table, her unfinished wine left on a coaster. Open in her lap is his file and a book; night-long she has recounted the years leading to the events of 1987, the topic was short-lived in a previous session:

The _Erasure_.

A fitting name really.

It was a period many would rather forget...

Fears ran high for years that followed among residents of Florence throughout the 1940s up until ‘87, and in her adolescence learned that Paris, Baltimore, Cuba, Turkey, so on and so fourth were united in their dread. Keeping in mind until the internet was developed all of her information was gathered through word of mouth, newspapers and televised broadcasts.

During that particularly bloody period that was already decades into the process, many Vampires were slaughtered, and many had yet to be uncovered from their domains or hiding places as they sought sanctuary from the world – wherever sanctuary was – or wasn’t. Given the severity of their thirst it was unquestionably a punishing feat to refrain from humanities loathing eyes. After all, there was only so long one could survive without detection. Concurrently many attempted to feed discreetly rather than get by on animals to avoid succumbing to bloodlust. Whether or not they were successful was a manor of opinion...

Due to their boldness, the ethereal’s numbers grew steadily until the 1960s, eventually dwindling more and more for reasons unknown.

For most of course, hiding wasn’t an option.

And both sides paid dearly for it.

There were not so much as hunters in the Victorian sense, or even the contemporary that are commonly shown in movies and theatre. There were not men running through towns and countrysides wielding crossbows, steaks, crosses and garlic – that method was tried and outdated – garlic was harmless and crosses did nothing. The people’s best deterrents capable of killing one were silver knives and bullets for those that could afford it, and fire for those who could not; although attempting the latter was significantly harder to utilize on it’s own. Likewise these remain as firsthand defence and attack for those that still believe in their existence.

Though few do.

Bedelia’s generation were the last to live among Vampires, and thusly, the last to accept such a reality.

If she had a sense of humour she would deem it morbidly comical how fast parents of the time were to revert them back to nothing more than myth, hopeful their children would not endure the same anxieties as they did. In turn, others did the same, making the period that of a nightmare. Prior to the _‘_ _R_ _esurgence’_ in WW2, that was all they were: nightmares.

In contrast, the odd patient would speak of them if hearing rumours of a sighting or gruesome death; one in particular, a man in his sixties, endured dreams involving one that claimed his twin brother in their youth. Apparently his son would say he had _a vivid imagination_ , that _the_ _R_ _esurgence was nothing more than the worlds greatest publicity stunt_ – similar in age, his wife believed him – but their son was convinced otherwise, despite how disturbingly recent the events truly were.

Bedelia supposes most find comfort in pretending there were never monsters hiding in the shadows of their closet rather than face the fact such creatures exist outside the works of _Anne Rice_ or _Bram Stoker_.

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier on the other hand, she felt, and feels, differently.

With ambiguity comes curiosity, and with curiosity comes a hunger for knowledge, and with knowledge, comes further questions in need of answers.

Hannibal Lecter has provided some – and the promise of an opportunity...

The itching from her wrist wakes her.

Setting the wine glass on an island in her kitchen she selects her favoured bottle from the wrack alongside a bowl of fresh figs, putting both behind her. Next is a little black box from a counter draw, it’s layered in silvery swirls with a moth in the centre of the lid; this too joins the others on the island. Taking out the antiseptic cream she leaves it open.

Walking to the sink she rolls up her sleeve, the bandage covering her wrist the width of a matchbox. Two manicured fingers secure the cloth between them, unravelling it over the empty stainless steel box.

There’s no blood – not fresh anyway.

The pair of little dark punctures can be easily mistaken for moles if one doesn’t inspect closer upon shaking hands. Typically the markings fade considerably by the time of their next session, but never truly go away, meaning a gold bangle permanently sits over it like a shield if not hidden by a sleeve. As always, the bite was clean and careful; she knows Hannibal prefers not to make a mess. In any case going for the neck is too obvious, harder to hide, the pain bearable but nonetheless unpleasant.

_Sometimes not._

The skin around it is redder this time. Inflamed but not infected. Running her wrist under the cold tap the shot of ice generates a shudder. She lathers on the cream. From the butterfly box she takes two bottles of pills, cracking off the caps she swallows three. A knock snatches her attention.

An hour early, that would be the weekly groceries.

Popping a fig between her lips she saunters into the hallway, rolling down the sleeve. Strangely no-one responds to her calling out, _Who is it?_ Because of this she grabs the pistol from her purse hung on the wall, holstering it in the back of her belt. After what Hannibal told her about the stranger she thinks it’s best keep it out of the safe and on her person if a surprise should emerge outside her door... the knock comes again. Opening it she finds not her usual deliverer, Leon, but a tall and slender woman with raven hair tightly pulled back into a bob, her gloved hands formally held at her front.

“You must be Chiyoh Murasaki.” she deduces, “How did you find me?”

“Perhaps we could talk inside.”

“Alight. Please, come on in.”

Chiyoh enters silently. The doctor’s PH.D. is framed in black and mounted on cream walls, the brown and gold roll of carpet leading from door to kitchen with a frill trim lining it’s edges, on the a shelf sits a single photo of Bedelia graduating medical school. A book and file stand out in her peripherals on a surface of glass. She’s gestured to the kitchen. Predisposed to the knowledge that she’s aware of what they are she isn’t going to dance around the subject.

“Where did Hannibal tell you he was going? I know you’re his psychiatrist.”

“He didn’t tell you? Without his prior consent, doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from disclosing that information legally.” Bedelia snacks on another fig. “Why aren’t you with him?”

“He asked me to watch over someone for him.”

“If that someone were me I would be flattered – depending on the context.” she says, pouring herself some wine. The other woman’s watchfulness darts about the room. “Is something wrong?”

“I smell blood… dried.”

“I was unaware your nose was so sensitive.”

Bedelia switches the strip from sink to trash. Picking up the glass she approaches her. The other gives an unreadable look.

“We can always smell it.”

“Evidently. May I?” she asks, to which Chiyoh removes a glove, extending a reluctant hand to her, the backs of their fingers touch; ice meeting fire. “Hm. It really _is_ a rare talent. Did he not teach you how to manipulate the heart? Not in the metaphorical sense of course.”

“It’s not an easy art to master. It demands complete focus, too costly in energy to uphold. Hannibal’s better at coping with the after effects than I was.”

“Interesting,” she sips, “meaning you never practice it?”

“No. And unlike him, I don’t feel the need to travel or interact other than where is necessary.”

Chiyoh makes a reasonable point. Years of therapy and study over Hannibal’s psychology and biology certainly hasn’t been lacking in substance. She made note recently on the headaches continuing as his time with Will Graham has gone on.

He once told of Chiyoh’s penchant for isolation in her cabin and disinterest for general sociability. Matter of factly, she kept residency in Lady Murasaki’s home in France: she being Chiyoh’s aunt, and by marriage, Hannibal’s too. She lived there for decades after he and their aunt left. Hannibal claims not to know why, though she suspects that is untrue.

By all accounts she regards Chiyoh as quite the comely creature. One full of unspoken secrets and quiet mystique that has yet to weaken and falter; at least with her. Prowling around the space to palm a fig she is like a cat inspecting a ball.

“And coming here when he’s away,” Bedelia says, “you clearly see that as necessary. Why are you really here? I doubt you are looking to make an appointment.”

“I was curious about _your_ practice, doctor.”

“Mine? What’s on your mind, Miss. Murasaki?”

“I wanted to know why his psychiatrist is unafraid of the demons that hide in humanities shadow; so much so she allows herself to be used like cattle.”

She taps at the glass stem, hiding her offence. “Think of it as a fox snatching a hen from it’s coop, only I grant the animal the means of preserving itself with no dire consequence on behalf of the chicken, if I were one.”

“You view him as an animal?” the fig is returned to the bowl beside the pill bottles, “What do you have to gain from ‘helping’ him? What is it you intend to achieve with your sessions?”

“It’s my job to treat him and hope he gets what he needs.”

“Quite literally. And what if he kills you?” Chiyoh register’s the disbelief in her smile and the pinkish skin peeking from her sleeve. “I think you like it. It wouldn’t be unheard of,”

“Like what, exactly?”

“The bite of a Vampire can become addictive,” the cat says, “it’s common, or used to be, for the victim to... anticipate it. Then again, I haven’t met someone who’s lived long enough to tell. But I’m sure _he_ has.”

“I am no victim.” she states, “I know of such a theory. But that is not the case.”

Isn’t it?

Bedelia cannot deny it’s credibility. She _is_ eager for him to take his fill each week, but stresses not if he is unable. Something to bear in mind is that Vampires kill anyone who learns of their grotesque nature, _especially_ throughout the Resurgence as the numbers grew. People were drained before they could even process the words _fight_ or _flight_. In all likelihood, Bedelia could be the only living human aware of her relationship with one of the Nocturnal (as Hannibal prefers) and not be killed for the knowledge. Depressingly however, Vampirism thrived from one simple desire:

not to face eternity alone.

“Will Graham isn’t your patient.” Chiyoh says, “Legally you can discuss him; what are your thoughts?”

Putting down the glass she crosses her arms, “I think he has been good for him. Equally, I feel it is dangerous. We both know what would happen should either of your truths be exposed to the public eye.”

“I trust Hannibal in his judgment.”

“I imagine you do. Trust is difficult for him. Do you feel Will is worthy of his trust?”

“As worthy as a psychiatrist.” her tone is mellow, absent of provocation, “Why go so far as to let him feed on you?”

“You suspect I want more outside of professional lines.”

“Anyone would say it is bordering on the extreme.”

“I am not anyone. What about you, what’s your preference?”

“I don’t feed on humans unless there’s no other choice,” sombre, she looks down to her folded hands; one gloved, the other not. “it’s only happened once.”

Neither speak for an entire minute.

“Are you afraid of him, even a little?”

Bedelia’s sigh is faint. “No.”

“If I were you little chick, I wouldn’t be so reckless. You would find no comfort in being swallowed by the beast.”

“I appreciate your concern, providing it’s authentic.” she brings the glass to her lips, watching Chiyoh through the crystal. “I am not at any real risk. I know what part I play in this game.”

“You sound so sure. I saw you.”

The glass rim drifts away before she can sip, uncertainty's shadow welcoming itself to her home in the form of this woman.

“Divine Coffee is closed, so I went to pick up herbs and spices this afternoon. I took a bus. Then, a few stops later you got on… _after_ you drew Will Graham’s attention.” the cat’s stony expression metamorphoses into hinted satisfaction from the delicate arch of her smile. “What were you doing there, doctor?”

“I was picking up a prescription. My usual pharmacy is being renovated, therefore transferring it to Crawford’s to prevent delay.”

“That doesn’t explain why he chased you.”

“I forgot the receipt.”

Her disinterested tone is met with reddened sparks igniting the pyres of Chiyoh’s almond eyes. She edges nearer, Bedelia leans back, head tilting upward, heart rate rising, slender digits at risk of snapping the stem from the purrs of newfound danger in her voice;

“If you are planning something, anything that could expose Hannibal or endanger Will... you won’t have time to pack your bags.”

Bedelia was mistaken to think of her as a house cat, albeit domesticated. In actuality, she’s a cougar.

Bewitching in face, but no less lethal with her claws.

A hard triple knock at the main door draws a flinch, briefly cracking the image of her idealised composure. “Please excuse me a moment. That would be my groceries.”

Sliding away from the counter edge she is smooth to cover the pistol by un-tucking part of her blouse, debating if she will have to use it. Occupied for a sluggish three or so minutes her grocer doesn’t suspect a thing. He is friendly and open in his small talk, offering to carry both bags into the kitchen but is declined with a gracious smile. Signing off the order he takes his leave. Reluctance clouds her logic, yet strolls back to the room holding her guest.

It’s empty.

Her mouth falls wide.

Dropping the bags a cluster of oranges, walnuts, baguettes, wine and more pour over the laminate. The bottle shatters, from the spillage it’s cranberry liquid seeps between the razor thin gaps of board like blood at a crime scene. Making for the living room she finds a curtain blowing in the nightly breeze.

A window across the room hangs open.

And Hannibal’s file is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could Hannibal possibly be up to?  
> Thanks for reading Chapter 8! :-D


	9. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My concern lies predominantly with Will Graham. More specifically what will be done with him, and what ought to be should a situation occur. He cannot let someone truly know him unless willing to do what is necessary to avoid being caught – as the saying goes: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead...”
> 
> The hairs on her neck stand on end.
> 
> “Your words, doctor, not mine. Would you be honest with me now?”  
> “One of us has to be.”  
> “Good. Because if you aren’t, I will know.”  
> Hannibal picks up his coat to hang it on a peg, encouraging her to sit. With that tiny window she braves opening her purse – the man turns back – she is fast to retract her hand.  
> “That file of yours… that isn’t the only one is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo, we're on Chapter 9 peeps!  
> Quick Side-note: if the odd letter in italics is randomly spaced then that's down to formatting issues, I'll fix those when able.  
> Enjoy!

_**TATTLER EXCLUSIVE:** _ _**A STORY TO SINK YOUR TEETH INTO…** _

_**Recent Animal Deaths Connected To Unsolved Case?** _

_L_ _ocal Louisiana authorities declined_ _to_ _comment to one of our reporters_ _after_ _new information come_ _s_ _to light_ _on_ _a two year old_ _(unsolved)_ _murder case; you might re_ _call_ _an_ _other_ Tattler _story_ _titled,_ _**‘FISHERMAN**_ _ **HOOKS**_ _ **THE WRONG FISH…**_ _ **RESURGENCE FEARS REKINDLE AMONG LOCALS AS**_ _ **POLICE CONTINUE TO WITHHOLD EVIDENCE FROM THE PUBLIC.’**_

 _Us here at_ The National Tattler _have never denied the possibility of Vampires still living among us,_ _there is plenty of proof illuding to it being fact. As for our readers, more than half seem to feel the same. Whether you think they exist or not, there’s no denying recent events have aroused suspicion among skeptics…_ _Either way, police and government officials_ _ **to this day**_ _continue their attempts to silence our press coverage over Vampirism in the U.S. despite a cluster of probable sightings over the years._

 _W_ _e re_ _cently_ _gained new insights_ _on_ _the_ _bloody_ _case_ _courtesy of a_ _previous_ _resident,_ _someone familiar with the victim discussed in the article:_ _ **Jonathan Graham**_ _. Out of respect for the interviewee, we will refer to her as Jane Doe, who had this to say:_

 _“_ _How could anyone forget_ _John_ _ny?_ _H_ _e_ _was_ _one of the finest men I knew_ _and_ _a real friend to all of us_ _at the yard_ _._ _The_ _night he died_ _m_ _y husban’ an_ _d_ _I_ _were having dinner_ _on_ _our_ _deck_ _._ _There was n_ _othin’ odd,_ _just_ _like any other night really._

 _“_ _But then later,_ _‘_ _b_ _out_ _1am, a noise woke us up. We heard_ _heavy_ _footsteps on the pontoon. We_ _sat_ _listenin_ _’_ _from our bed_ _by a_ _little round window; we couldn’t see much, but there was two pairs of legs_ _opposite_ _our_ _boat,_ _we weren’t sure_ _who’_ _s_ _they were at_ _first_ _._ _A man_ _said somethin’ and t_ _he next thing we know_ _one_ _was_ _chasin_ _’_ _the other up the way,_ _t_ _hen what sounded like a yel_ _l_ _…_ _i_ _t was just Jo_ _hn_ _ny_ _’s voice, no-one else's,_ _we knew that straight away._

 _“_ _T_ _here_ _was_ _a_ _hard_ _thud_ _, like someone_ _bein’_ _thrown against_ _a_ _wood_ _en panel_ _._ _W_ _e heard John_ _ny_ _again,_ _he was coughin’…_ _my husban’ got up_ _immediately when there was a crash, like he was thrown through_ _somethin’._ _We guessed it was a_ _cabin door_ _– John_ _ny’_ _s_ _, I mean – I was fixated on_ _our_ _window._ _T_ _he Graham’s were moored a good three or four platforms away but that sound… that awful, awful sound_ _of the_ _crash shot through the night like –_ _like_ _it – I’m sorry, this is harder than I thought._ _A_ _nyway, my husban’ grabbed a mast hook_ _out the front_ _and went to see what was goin’ on._ _I was_ _puttin’ on_ _a robe when h_ _e yelled to call an ambulance._

 _What I saw_ _after that_ _will stay with me for as long as I breathe… I won’t get into that much. All I’ll say is that_ _the_ _wounds_ _were_ _horrific_ _with_ _what looked like deep punctures on his neck,_ _but_ _really_ _deep like an animals. I feel so bad for his son,_ _that poor thing_ _.”_

 _The son mentioned is thirty-something_ _ **Will J. Graham**_ _._ _H_ _e’s never agreed to an interview_ _and has never_ _made a statement_ _to us or other news media_ _._ _Somewhat of a recluse, i_ _t’s believed he moved away but we haven’t_ _had_ _any leads_ _worth covering._ _Jane Doe and others from the yard said they want him to be left alone; refusing to spare_ _details._

 _**WHERE IS** _ _**ALL** _ _**THIS GOING, YOU ASK?** _ _**WHAT’S THE** _

_**SO-CALLED CONNECTION?** _ _**WELL...** _

_Although authorities worked_ _tirelessly_ _to ensure the_ _specifics_ _surrounding the man’s grizzly fate,_ _the wound_ _s_ _described by Jane_ _holds_ _eerily similar comparisons to the sudden slue of farm animal deaths spread across several locations outside **Maryland, Minnesota** and parts of **Virginia**. Police and local vets declined to comment what they think to be the cause. _ _Our own Freddie_ _Lounds snapped the front page photo of the horse, and as you can see, the bite_ s _are_ _clear on it’s back._ _We needn’t say_ _both might have zero connection, but when has that stopped us, or our readers, from wondering_ _about the truth_ _?_

 _Now_ _it’s up to_ _ **YOU** _ _to decide:_

 _Could_ _it be an undocumented animal?_

_Or far more worrying, a Vampire come out of hiding?_

Reading this on their website is what solidified Hannibal’s decision to leave.

In doing so meant forging a lie to Will, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Maintaining his truth in the form of a lie is the safest way, and likely the only way, they can be together. To call it unorthodox is under-compensating of such a relationship.

His psychiatrist was not inaccurate in stating this is the first in a long time. _T_ _heir_ affair in Florence was short-lived, initially intended as a one night stand. Funnily enough, he was intending to feed from her upon reaching her climax – that way the blood had sweeter potency, greatly more nourishing from the rush of endorphins than if unaltered in it’s normal state – they never see it coming.

Alas, that was not to be.

Her confidence in their early discussions were far more appealing than that of her blood.

How different it was to hear The Erasure spoken so openly, so liberally, so… _in depth_ from a human.

It was only a matter of time therein she would question his whim of romantic entanglements with one after thirty years without; pushed more so from his topic avoidance of his beloved Leva. Her inner, otherworldly visage unmatched by the likes of Venus in the night sky – her spirit as free as the wind that flowed in her hair – the colour she brought to a world he thought devoid of all but grey. The pain of her premature departure from this Earth still lingers when venturing too deep inside himself.

Will reminds him of her at times. Mostly stemming from the little things.

For instance in how he looses himself when enthralled in new ideas for the inner workings of his novel, others when he succumbs to typical vexations, sometimes in his everyday actions, though minimal. Above all else: the profound effect he has over Hannibal to the point of feeling enchanted. Interestingly there is great contrast between them.

After the opera when Will re-emerged with the primal urge to protect his partner, there was a darkly enigmatic undertone in his gaze over the thicket where the stranger had fled. They harboured a vitality, a glint of undiscovered potential – what that potential _is_ remains uncertain as of now – all he knows is deep inside of Will is something he cannot pin to name. The lines around Will’s eyes had creased in focus, his shoulders strong and breathing calm over traces of sweat from the tension, but not the anxious sort.

As reverent as Will is when a lamb, he nothing less than striking in his radiance when a wolf.

He is also the reason why Hannibal finds himself in New Orleans.

Or more specifically, why he had to lie.

Having conducted some light research he tracked down the name of the yard from Will’s photos. He has a reliable contact that works at several part time, providing a lead on the boat’s whereabouts. He enters the main gate and strolls down the stony path. Spotting a kiosk connected to a raising barrier he approaches the guard sitting inside.

“Good evening, madam,”

The middle-aged woman peers her head above a book she’s reading, a collection of poems by _Edgar Allen Poe_. A lanyard bearing YARD STAFF hangs around her neck; the ID reading _Penny_. Her unsure eyes roam his three piece suit, appearing more like a business man than a sailor.

“Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. I am looking to purchase a boat, I’ve heard great things regarding the ones here.”

“You heard right, we have plenty to choose from. Looking to surprise the wife with a cruise?”

“A tour across Europe,” he says, stepping closer to the open window. “I want to get her a remarkable gift unlike any other for our wedding, and what better gift is there than a yacht?”

“Better in-laws…” she mumbles, “Well, I’m sorry to say the yachts are all pre-sold an’ waiting for collection in a couple weeks an’ the few that aren’t are gonna be stripped. We have some great Cobles, a couple houseboats and a dozen others if you’re interested.”

“That’s quite alright,” his smile is charming, “Still, would it be of any inconvenience for me to browse all the same? For reference. The yard’s vessels sounded all too impressive to be left unseen.”

She shakes her head, “No, can’t do that today. It’s just me an’ one other member working ‘til this evening so I can’t really leave. If you come back next month we’ll have some more.”

“I see.”

Acknowledging the book in her lap he takes a wander inside his favourite palace library on the thirteenth floor. Finding his collection from the early–mid 1800s within the archive, he extracts a single page under _E. A. Poe;_ gentle as not to crease it through the translucent covering. The yellowed parchment is perfectly intact; he only needs a second to study it’s scripture.

“It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee; and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”

As intended, Penny’s attention is locked on him as he recites;

“I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee—with a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee; so that her highborn kinsmen came and bore her away from me, to shut her up in a sepulchre in this kingdom by the sea.”

“The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,” she joins, “went envying her and me—yes—that was the reason (as all men know, in this kingdom by the sea) that the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.”

He winks, “But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we—of many far wiser than we—and neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee; for the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee; and the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee; and so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, in her sepulchre there by the sea—in her tomb by the sounding sea.”

She applauds with a clap. “My favourite one.”

“You have wonderful taste.”

“I’d say I’m jealous of _your_ Annabel Lee, but only if she’s doing better than the one in the poem.”

“That she is. Now, I should leave you to your work. Thank you for indulging me, _Penny_.”

He turns to walk away.

“Hold up, tell ya what, if you don’t mind waitin’ twenty minutes then my co-worker should be back to change places w’me. I can show you the yachts we’ve left stored in the warehouse.”

“You’re too kind.”

She talks, they walk, she talks some more.

Saying little himself he she continues quoting further poems, he enjoys it somewhat. Taking in the surroundings they arrive at the warehouse. She pulls open the sliding door with a great rusty hinged screeching, wincing as she does.

“Really ought to oil that one of these days… Here we are, _Mr_ …”

“Raspail.”

She ushers him to follow. There’s eleven boats lined up inside, she points left,

“These are the eight waitin’ to be picked up. Brand new, freshly painted, they sold pretty fast. Those two in the middle are gonna be stripped next week.”

“What’s to be done with the eleventh?”

They stop at the very end, she sighs.

“Nothin’ right now. The boss said it’s not to be sold or tampered with, a friend of his used to own it I think. Should I leave you to look around?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure, I’ll be outside.”

Left to his lonesome Hannibal glides a hand across the side of the boat, the top hidden in a rain cover. The panel is smooth and lacking severe wear and tear, in places the odd scuff mark. It was well maintained preceding it’s abandonment. _Shiloh_ is printed on the rear left. At the back he unties the rope, throwing up the cover with a loud, plastic crackle; unveiling the cockpit.

Getting inside the cabin is easy.

Stepping down it’s mostly absent of furniture; any remaining is bolted down. Everything appears clean, the surfaces wiped and the floor only half it’s natural colour.

_streaked across the floor, some on the curtains, the table..._

A finger traces the table edge. Fondling the curtain accumulations of dust are quick to acquiesce. It’s hardly spacious to allow for two people’s comfort: the room at the back is smaller than his pantry, with a bunk bed and tiny bathroom attached. Ideal for weekends but not long term voyages.

In the centre he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

The thing about blood is that it can last for years on wood despite being scrubbed away by bleach or water. And with Hannibal’s abnormally sensitive nose he can smell it stronger than most; Nocturnal or human alike – no mater the faintness of an aroma.

Crouching down he inhales again.

_Coppery. Rich. Through the acidic of fear an unusual sweetness._

The scent matches Will’s.

His palm splays over darkened board, caressing multiple crescent-like grooves. _Nail marks_ _, several trail_ _lines._ _Jonathan_ _dragged_ _himself back_ _half a metre._ _He_ _likely_ _bled to death in minutes, little_ _strength_ _to crawl_ _from blood loss_ _._ He stands again. _Four_ _grooves_ _on the door frame, the inner lining partially crushed; seems closer to gripping in anger than to break one’s fall_ _._ _Perchance_ _the killer’s?_ His focus veers to the curtain. _No_ _scent_ _trace_ _s_ _of_ _blood_ _on the_ _fabric;_ _replacements._ Suspecting there to be more beckons him to check for anything forensics could have missed.

He searches every nook and cranny, each possible crevice. They did well, but not well enough as tucked deep between a single board he finds a finger nail. Using a slip of card from a notice on the window he nudges it out. The end must have snapped in the struggle.

It’s yellow.

Jonathan’s were clear in the photo, cuticles black from oil.

_they never caught the guy that did it..._

Gathering all he’s learned from this little investigation he adds it to the dossier within the palace files. Leaving the warehouse he finds Penny talking on a walkie.

“Good job, Javi, you've saved me an extra hour. Okay, Penny out. Are you satisfied Mr. Raspail?”

“Quite. This was very educational.”

“Happy to hear, an’ like I said, if you’re still lookin’ around next month feel free to come back.”

No need.

Back at the hotel he checks his watch. It’s about this time of evening that he would be reading through fresh chapters or kissing the ticklish knobs of Will’s pelvis just to hear him laugh. The nights when alone he would be sketching, composing or tending a brutal headache with a feed or extra strength painkillers if too tired to treat through meditation. His cell buzzes on the bed.

_**Chiyoh:** I have something you need to see._

_**You:** Can it wait until morning? Where are you?_

_**Chiyoh:** I’m at home, it’s best you see it now._

_**You:** If you insist – 1am._

Brushing off the pillows he lies back, interlinking his fingers. There came a time where he held an apathy towards the trials of normal life – whatever such a thing means or meant to Hannibal Lecter – until The Erasure. He lived then as he does now: calmly and methodically; discretion always a constant. Behind his sundry deeds, both malevolent and benign, lurks a history so ensconced in flows of crimson that few would think it plausible, let alone true, for a man of his stature.

His cell buzzes again. He answers happily;

“Mylimasis, what are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted to hear your voice.”

“Why is yours so quiet?”

“The dogs are snoring, I don’t wanna wake em’.”

“I miss you, if that helps.”

“Not really. You’re still a sap.”

“A sap whom you miss?”

Will hums, his voice gravelly, “Come back and find out?”

“In the morning.”

“It _is_ morning.”

“11:26pm isn’t morning, Will.”

“It’s close enough...” he says, throat clearing amidst a muffled shuffling, “Tell me about yourself, how’d it go today?”

“It looks promising. I met with a man holding better prospects than anticipated.”

“That’s good, Han.”

“Although, I am having second thoughts. I don’t often consider branching out.”

“It’s you, remember? You’ll figure it out.” teasingly he adds, “I hope you’re behaving yourself… You wouldn’t want me kicking down your hotel door in the middle of the night.”

“Would I not? You know I only ache for you.”

“Yeah? What’re you wearing?”

“My suit with the tie you bought me last week,” he warms, “it matches your eyes so wonderfully it was like gazing into them when putting it on this morning.”

The writers silence makes him beam. Through the phone he pictures his face painted with scarlet cheeks.

“You know you’re supposed to make it up, right?”

“Would you like to set an example?”

“It’s hard to sound sexy with a blacked out dog making your arm go numb…”

“It’s you, remember?”

“Shut up – I do miss you. You’re annoying as hell sometimes but I do.”

“Insufferable,” Hannibal softly laughs, “I’ll be yours again before long.”

“Gonna have to take a number, Winston’s been clinging to me since –”

He hesitates.

“Will, is everything –”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I’m fine, it’s just… it’s been a long two or three days.”

“Tell me.” he whispers as Will yawns, “I’m right here.”

“When you get home.”

“Alright. You’re beyond doting when sleepy. If I were there with you I would have you cradled in my arms, kissing your forehead and lulling you to sleep.”

“Ambitious… keep talkin’.”

“I would pull you closer as your eyes close, my lips warm and soft on yours as you drift into sleep. Hearing you hum and sigh would make it difficult to resist waking you if only to see those beautiful irises looking deeply into mine for just a moment more. The very feel of you, the very _presence_ of you, making me forget to breathe.”

“What is it with you and my damn eyes?” he croaks, “Morning?”

“Should you wake secondly I would roll you over me, feeling your weight on mine as you groan complaints of it being too early.” Will’s breathing slows. “I would sweep away those unruly curls that cling to your cheeks and trace a thumb along your perfect lips before kissing them long and slow, savouring you as if it were the last time.”

“Hm…”

“Are you worried about nightmares?”

“Nothing I handle… mean, can’t handle…”

He imagines him lying in bed with rumpled sheets coiled around his legs, surrounded by crumpled balls of paper and dogs, hair straggly over his tired face, the side squashed against the pillow.

“Han…”

“I’m still here. My good Will, sleep now.”

He smiles as his better half dozes completely. He listens to him breathe for a minute or two, telling him goodnight, hanging up thereafter.

Now he has to pack.

***

Knelt opposite Chiyoh he is attentive to her tale with talks of a visit to Doctor Du Maurier, having become suspicious of recent behaviour.

“After that I took your file and left.”

By what she says, Bedelia has been rather fruitful over recent months; consistently filling and updating his file with ample reconnaissance. He isn’t the least bit stunted by such news. If anything, both women have impressed him. Chiyoh stands, walking behind him to retrieve a purse and returns to the floor cushion, folding her legs beneath her. From it she pulls a black file, holding it across the coffee table. Taking it, she says,

“Turn to page 353.”

Hannibal does. There’s a note paper-clipped to a three week old entry.

_Lately he is less informative in our weekly sessions; when they were weekly. I presume he doesn’t feel as greater need for them as prior to his growing relationship with Mr. Graham. Concurrently he still wants me on the sidelines given my flavour caters to his preferences, on that there is no change._

_On the other hand it’s brought to my attention that he may, in future, wish sample a newer blend; that of his partner’s. My reason is not unreasonable. Human ties to the Nocturnal do not result in relationships, ( not on record) but in a severe loss of blood, 99% of the time resulting in death. Should he feed on Mr. Graham, perhaps he will be the lucky 1%? _

He is humoured by this.

_I still believe I see a version of him, whereas another stands separate on the other side of a metaphorical veil. I cannot say for sure as he is yet to reveal it anyone, including myself. _

_There is no denying he has perfected the art of blending in from the wearing of a very well tailored ‘person suit’, and will continue to do so for as long as possible. Therapy works best if the patient is comfortable in opening up to their psychiatrist, and yet mine insists on having one foot firmly planted on both sides_.

_Having researched this particular Vampire so intimately, my studies of him will culminate in the form of a book when no longer in need of my services, should he not commit to the promise he made me years ago. I will be long gone by the time he realizes._

_My concern lies predominantly with Will Graham. More specifically what will be done with him, and what ought to be should a situation occur. He cannot let someone truly know him unless willing to do what is necessary to avoid being caught – as the saying goes: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead..._

His upper lip twinges.

_When the day comes and his truth is found out, both men will have to make a choice. Alternatively, Hannibal could offer the same promise granted to me unless deciding that Graham’s mortality isn’t worth his own survival. Ultimately, if he had chosen me, he wouldn’t need to contemplate such a scenario._

_I wonder if Graham would run or stay at his side if he knew what he was capable of… or of what will inevitably happen to him. It’s only in a Vampire’s nature. On either side of the veil is an irrefutable fact:_ _the fox doesn’t make friends with that of the rabbit._

_He eats it._

The entry ends.

“Your thoughts?” Chiyoh says.

“Envious I think is the appropriate term. As she has been bold enough to introduce herself to Will personally I feel she has overstepped her boundaries. And mine.” he flips through the wad of pages, hundreds upon hundreds.

“Why did you promise to turn her? You know the newly created are reckless.”

“I promised the _opportunity_ should I deem her trustworthy of becoming one of us. This greatly crushes it.” the file is put down. He switches to a cushion beside her. “Are you aware of any Nocturnals that were active in Louisiana two years ago?”

“I’m not sure.” she thinks for a moment. “I heard one was hiding somewhere in Minnesota, a male, but I thought he succumbed to bloodlust and starved after a string of animal deaths and murders. Too risky to carry on the hunt.”

“I think he’s the one I told you about. I left town to visit Will’s precious _Shiloh_ , the blood stains were old in the wood but matched his scent, among other things.”

“You think the stranger killed his father?”

“Most likely, yes. If you find anything, remember any names –”

“I’ll tell you immediately. How will you find him?”

“I won’t. Should his temptations renew then he will come to us.”

She nods. A vivid solemness shrouds her doe features. Having not done so since his transformation he decides to speak the words left decades unsaid between them. Knowing she is in need of hearing them at last.

“You have always been protective of me, always looking out for my best interests even when I hadn’t asked for it. Do you recount the night you saved me?”

“I didn’t _save_ you, Hannibal… I damned you.”

“I was already damned long before.” he says, “You returned from Tokyo only to find me at the mercy of death, and for whatever reason you chose to spare me the fateful reap of his scythe. If you had found me a day later… well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now would we?”

“I didn’t want to turn you.”

“But you did. May I ask why?”

She bows her head. “From my inability to save my aunt – or Leva – I simply didn’t carry the strength to lose you too. Maybe I still don’t.” her voice flows in gentle sincerity; “The day I was created, I pledged never to feed upon a human being. I broke that pledge by giving into the weakness of my attachment to you. ‘Saving your life’ meant dishonouring my vow. For that, you would understand, I have remained torn.”

“Oh, my dear, even though it no longer beats you hold the strength of mountains in your heart. The very fact that you tamed your thirst so quickly, and maintained it for so long is in itself a feat of sheer will. You should know that the volition you have to carry on in their memory speaks volumes far greater than I could ever express.”

She raises up her head. “Do you still have the dagger Lady Murasaki gave you? The silver blade crafted by my great uncle?”

“I do. It’s mounted on a wall.”

“I would like to see it again someday.”

“Whenever you wish.” noticing the mournful glimmer in the girl’s stare he smooths her hair and cups her cheek. “Family values may have declined over the last century but we still help our families when we can – you are family, Chiyoh.”

For the first time in decades, Chiyoh Murasaki’s smile is wide and honest.

***

_~ The Du Maurier Residence ~_

From a dream pervaded with the cat’s final words turning to action she jolts awake with a gasp, instinctively clasping at her throat from the feel of tearing flesh. Scouting the surroundings she is relieved to find herself alone. With desert sands in place of saliva she reaches for the glass on the bedside; jumping at the alarm clock when it clunks to the floor, picking it up, her wrist itches.

_4.17am._

Downing the water she reluctantly vacates the bed in a quest to refill it. Slipping on a silk gown she walks through moonlight, careful to avoid tripping on luggage bags. Through the hallway she secures the railing heading downstairs. The floors do not creak. The light slaps of her feet the only sound in the pitch dark. She tugs at a lamp cord by the living room archway; it’s tepid glow eases her mind.

From the kitchen sink a steady flow of liquid shoots into the glass; supping it brings a chill that slithers down her oesophagus. She starts back the way she came.

“Hello, Bedelia...”

The woman freezes. Slowly, her head turns. In the living room, itself consumed in a deathly blackness, a pair of fiery, pinpoint sparks greet her at a distance.

“You really should find a better place for hiding a spare key, beneath a pot is particularly cliché.”

“What are you doing here?”

The points rise. The figure’s steps are daunting in their slow approach from the shadows. Hannibal Lecter positions in the centre, standing very still, passive. The lamp glow is soft over his suit clad form, his face half hidden. The vignette only intensifies the fineness of his bone structure; devoid of expression except for the ambiguity behind his eyes and the evenness of his tone;

“I apologize for letting myself in at this ungodly hour but I’m afraid this couldn’t wait.”

She says nothing.

“Are you familiar with a patient that lived in Minnesota some years ago? A male. Likely in his late thirties. A hunter perhaps? I ask only for a yes or no.”

“None matching that description.” she answers truthfully, “Is that why you came? To ask about a patient?”

“Partially.”

“The other reason?”

“You sound unsure of yourself, you needn’t be nervous. You never are with me.”

She left the purse in the kitchen... not the hallway.

“In my defence I have never found you sitting in the dark of my home.”

“Once again, my apologise for startling you.”

“Consider your apology accepted. How was your trip?”

“Insightful,”

Unable to read his intentions the glass in her hands is forgotten until both begin to tremble.

“Do forgive me but I implore you to leave, I have a long day ahead of me and a schedule to keep –”

“Sending off forms for a new ID, yes, I know. I saw the papers on the stand.”

“I thought you deemed it rude to interrupt?”

“That I do.” he says, “A lady especially.”

“I need to make some coffee.”

“Allow me. I happen to have some of mine.”

Hannibal strides past her.

Goosebumps form on her arms. _Be calm, you don’t know what this is yet..._ She follows behind, keeping him at arms length. An illusion of caution.

A light comes on, she watches from the entrance. Hannibal takes a magenta mug from the cupboard after grabbing a cylinder tub from his coat, she hadn’t spotted it over the barstool. His left side is facing her. With two meters between her and the purse she is relieved to find it’s still beside the fridge on a counter top.

“Your aptitude of hiding things from me has never been without consideration, and admittedly, I would have much proffered being proven wrong in the circumstance we find ourselves in. You have been rather deceptive, Dr. Du Maurier.”

The kettle boils and steams.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do.”

He filters the coffee in the mug. Adding cream and sugar. Once done it’s put on the island.

“Please.” he says.

“Thank you…”

Bedelia edges towards him, the smell of ginger spices resulting from the rising steam. She is un-wanting to sip with him staring directly at her. He cants his head – _waiting_. This prompts her to play along while the coffee’s effervescence wobbles; it’s pointless to assume he notices not. _H_ _e will weaponize your emotions if you let him_ _._ _You have this under control._ Looking down she plants the mug on the island. His sights remain locked on hers, crows feet crinkling.

“My concern lies predominantly with Will Graham. More specifically what will be done with him, and what ought to be should a situation occur. He cannot let someone truly know him unless willing to do what is necessary to avoid being caught – as the saying goes: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead...”

The hairs on her neck stand on end.

“Your words, doctor, not mine. Would you be honest with me now?”

“One of us has to be.”

“Good. Because if you aren’t, I will know.”

Hannibal picks up his coat to hang it on a peg, encouraging her to sit. With that tiny window she braves opening her purse – the man turns back – she is fast to retract her hand.

“That file of yours… that isn’t the only one is it?”

“No.”

"You craft such interesting observations. I read through more than half of them, the rest I had to skim for time. Other than some minor discrepancies I’ve enjoyed them enormously. So many little notes... thoughts… speculations…”

She swallows a build up of bile; the need to replace the rancid taste with coffee proves overwhelming. He could put an end to this in an instant, she knows.

“Page 25 was quite something. You noted, ‘Lecter’s proposal of opening a coffee shop once perplexed me given he cannot taste or enjoy what he serves. How is he able to know the quality without infusing it with blood, can he even stomach it?’ You never asked me that question.”

“It bares little relevance to your therapy.”

“Indeed. Pages 87 to 96 detailed my activities in the summer, not as engaging sadly. _”_ his hands slot into his pant pockets, “Jumping ahead a bit, page 203: ‘One of his customers went missing last week. Obviously he hasn’t told told me what happened to him other than: a man with such a viscous tongue is unlikely to order from us again… I think Hannibal fed from him.’”

“And did you?”

He gives her a wry look; “Do you really have to ask? It shouldn’t shock you to hear I am intrigued by whatever else you have filed away on me. Are the rest in your study?”

“They are.”

“You have certainly done your homework. Which is why it’s most unfortunate you resorted to cheating so late in the course. I know you went to see him two days ago.”

“Who?”

“Bedelia… Bedelia… you said you would be honest.”

“I was picking up a prescription, I had no interest in –”

Hannibal never yells. Not even when angered; he doesn’t have to to get his point across. He masks it with a firm tone like lecturing a disobedient child; he does so now;

“ _Did you see_ _k_ _him_ _out_ _?_ ”

“Yes…” she stammers.

“Good girl.”

“May I have some more coffee?”

Though it’s half empty he takes the mug and rinses it. The kettle is put on. With his back turned she goes for the purse, scrabbling for her pistol. She aims it at him, flipping back the hammer. He doesn’t react, more concerned by a damaged filter.

“If pointing a gun at me makes you feel safer, then please, do so. You can even pull the trigger if there’s any point.” he glances back, “ _Is_ there any point?”

“That depends entirely on you and your intentions inside my home.”

“So it would seem. You wouldn’t be so hesitant if you knew.”

Hannibal faces his weary psychiatrist, mug in hand, ignoring the blatant threat aimed at his face. It’s set down. Taking a step he extends a hand.

“ _Don’t move_.” she orders.

“Hand me the gun, if you will.”

“Get out. I want you to leave.”

“And I will. Soon. Once I give you what was promised.”

Frowning, her arms crook slightly. “You’re going to turn me?”

“No.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“You struck a deal with the devil, Bedelia. I offered you the chance to become one of us on the condition that I can trust you with my secrets. In return you agreed to being a Nocturnal’s psychiatrist, guaranteeing you would never share them.”

He steps closer. She steps back. He continues,

“I warned you there would be consequences should you betray my trust. And you have on multiple standings.”

Another slow step.

“Six years provided a lot of material for you. Material that I freely gifted, not sold. If I were what man says, I would have killed you without a second thought back in Italy…”

“ _Stop,_ Hannibal!”

The Vampire halts. Her gun stays up, body tremoring as it bumps into the wall. If she runs, he will catch her, she is sure. If she shoots, he is fast enough to dodge her silver bullets. She is the canary trapped in it’s cage. The chicken being eyed by the hungry fox. The weapon shakes and a wavering breath escapes her lips, a powerless whisper in place of a command;

“Get. Out.”

He mocks her fear with the malevolent smile of narrowing eyes; the fiery flitters of dread swirl into glowing eclipses around his pupils. She pulls the trigger. The hammer flicks up...

Nothing happens.

She fires again.

And again...

Mouth agape, quaking and speechless, her eyes burn with frightful tears. The _thing_ licks it’s lips in a look of disappointment. It’s words come low and thick with subtle malice.

“I took your bullets.”

He marches for her. All she can do is run.

She makes it as far as the hallway when the creature snares her neck from behind. She cannot scream. Even if she could there is no one to help for miles. The gun falls as her wrist is grabbed and raised beside her head. It’s cheek presses against hers.

_“What… would Leva say…?”_

His fingers loosen on her neck. “She would plead that I do not kill you.”

“Are you?”

“That depends entirely on you. If you survive, never come my way again.”

“What –”

His fangs plunge deep between neck and shoulder, stealing her ability to speak in place of stutters and grunts. She is suddenly suspended in the aether; watching the horror play out in third person as her body coils, arms trapped and legs kicking before one is restrained with the creature’s own – her limbs grow stiff – her eyes roll, obscuring the world in a soupy fog. The thrumming of her heart pulses through weakening veins. Slowing down at a terrifying rate. The sickening sound of his gulps playing on repeat… Soon enough, yet far too late, she is eased to the ground.

She groans. Hands frame her cooling face. Delirious, a warmth trickles the curve of her flesh. The quiescent that surrounds her is deafening.

All is surreal in this newfound haze.

Minutes later there are distant rustles of paper. Footsteps echo past her, a door creeks open.

“Consider this the resignation to our patient-therapist relationship. Farewell, doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then...  
> To think of where we were waaaay back in Chapter 1… my how things have changed.
> 
> Feedback's welcome & thanks for reading :-)


	10. Two Hearts, One Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 4am Hannibal stirs from sleep, easily slipping out of bed without disturbing Will. His headache has grown brutal as the night’s progressed with white hot stabs skewing the confines of his skull. Sticking two fingers into his neck, his pulse is weak – he shall have to feed sooner than expected. An ‘insurance policy’ is also stored in the hidden compartment of his car, if he is fast he can retrieve it; not desiring to leave the house unprotected in the absence of sunlight.
> 
> At the door he stops short of lowering the handle, detecting a distant odour of blood. Guarded, he opens it, discovering the stranger under the garden tree.
> 
> Closing up behind him he descends the porch steps. They stand roughly 10ft away. Hannibal knows that if the man wanted to he could have killed Will. So why didn’t he? It must be to taunt him. A power play. A challenge against one of his own. Or maybe, he wanted to talk, using threats against Will to prevent him from acting too hastily. A grave miscalculation on his part.
> 
> Despite this, clearly, it has worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Welcome back, peeps, heads up for re-readers!  
> I realized I made a mistake regarding Grutas' name by calling him 'Vladimir Grutas' -- I've corrected it to read 'Vladis Grutas'.
> 
> Now that that's over with... enjoy chapter 10!!

Hannibal reaches Wolf-Trap some hours before daybreak.

Wrapping Dr. Du Maurier's research inside his suit jacket they are stashed within the hidden compartment of his car. Just as well. The dark smear over the breast pocket will be an inconvenience to wash out. Will, certainly, would notice if wearing it inside.

On the porch, he’s oddly reluctant to knock. The velvet sky with glimmering stars, soon to be pink; the perfect tranquillity of the morn, the branches of the garden tree now naked of its leaves. With a single creak from the floorboards he acquiesces to it; there’s a hole about three feet from the trunks base. Reaching elbow deep inside he feels around for a pocketable box. Will told him where to find the spare key. Returning to the door he unlocks it, his movements slow as not to disturb its occupants.

Will isn’t in bed, on the couch or hunched over his desk. With the exception of one even the dogs have disappeared. He hangs his coat. Navigating the ordered chaos of pet beds and plug-in heater cables he offers his fingers to Cinnamon, stretched in front of the heaters. She sniffs at them before jumping up at the metallic clunk of a latch bolt; dashing to the hallway her tail wags vigorously.

Will trudges through with his shadow carving itself from the bathroom’s narrow light. He rubs at his face, unknowingly walking right past him to grab a white box from the desk draw. Cinnamon follows at his heels. He looks up, now realizing Hannibal stands opposite.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

The baristo’s chance to feel disheartened from his apathy is swiftly placed aside when eyeing the red that paints his fingers. Avoiding the trip hazards he approaches Will, he gently raises them for inspection. “The blood –”

“It’s not mine. Winston’s gotten worse.”

“Worse? What happened to him?”

Will’s eyes darken in his flustering, as have the bags underneath compared to when he last saw him.

“He ran into the woods. I heard him barking and crying all the way from here. I found him bleeding under a tree. I thought it might’ve been a wolf but… but they were rooted out the area decades ago.”

“When did this happen.”

“A few hours after you left. He –”

A high, drawn out whimper stifles the explanation. Hannibal follows his retreat to the hallway, on the left they enter the bathroom. Cinnamon wriggles under his legs to get there first; settling beside Winston with numerous licks to his face as if to soothe. She barks in protest when Will pulls her away, demanding she sit by the door, irritatingly that doesn’t stop her bellyaching.

Hannibal quiets her with stern red eyes. His partner doesn’t notice, too preoccupied opening the box in his hands. The smell of blood, both dry and fresh, lingers on the bandage discarded on the floor tile with more wafting from the animal’s neck.

“Do me favour, grind up three of these and mix em’ into that bowl there –” he pops them out the plastic with a crack, passing them over. “There’s a spoon here somewhere, where _the hell’d_ it go?”

“I found it.”

Mashing up the pills he kneads the white dust into the raw breast meat. He’s flashed a twitchy half smile when giving him the bowl. The dog eats one, he’s encouraged to eat another but shows disinterest. Will makes a jerky side nod and mistakenly bumps the first-aid kit when shuffling his feet.

“Chicken’s his favourite…”

“May I see?” Hannibal asks, gesturing to the wound.

“Knock yourself out.”

Cleaning his hands with an alcoholic wipe from the kit he spreads the fur, examining it closely. “You said this happened after I left?”

“Yeah, maybe ah, three, four hours. I took his temperature already, not exactly a fever but it’s not far off.”

“Well, it doesn’t bode much better that it’s infected. I’m going to have to clean this, do you have any _Chlorhexidine?_ ”

“Hang on,” Will twists around to the cabinet. The pros of handling pharmacy stock? Instantly knowing what to look for when told. Rummaging through the assortment of pain killers he finds the bottle of blue liquid, never opened. Washing his hands for the third time in thirty minutes he pours some on a cotton pad, “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“What, so you’re a vet now?”

“Not exactly. Did I ever tell you I used to be a surgeon?”

“A _surgeon?_ ” Will repeats to distract himself, “Explains all the medical books. Why’d you quit? It’s hard to believe anyone would trade a pay-cheque like that for starting a coffee shop.”

“I killed someone – or, more accurately I couldn’t save someone.” He swabs at the wound, “One night a man came suffering from multiple gun shot wounds and severe internal haemorrhaging. When the paramedics brought him to my operating theatre I didn’t know where start. Keep him still. Almost done.” Applying a fresh dressing he adds; “He died less than an hour into surgery. I had never failed a patient before.”

“Wouldn’t say ‘failed’, these things happen.”

“It happened one time too many. It came as a surprise to most when I turned my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts; I fix thirst instead of bodies, this moment and the robbery excluded, and no one’s died as a result of my coffee.”

That earns a muffled laugh out of Will.

“There, I’ve done what I can for now. Where are the others?”

“Upstairs. I didn’t want em’ getting in the way, luckily Cinnamon’s the only one that got loose. Glad I got Winston fixed last year, they’re really… well, they rarely leave each others side these days.”

He watches Will lift and carry him out. Holding back to clear away the mess he puts the kit on a shelf. Joining them in the living room after, the dog is set down by the heaters. Knowing from experience, the subject of Winston’s infliction is clear to him: it was one of the Nocturnal.

If its intent was to lure Will into the woods by his lonesome in the dark then it was not unfruitful. And yet, some particulars board a train of thought: _why not take its fill? Moreover, why not snatch Will when it had the chance?_ He theorizes that Winston was not bait to entrap him, but purposely left alive for him to find – it fed enough to hurt and bleed, not to faint. It wanted him to cry out. He’s told of a deer he found soon after; it’s condition similar if not slightly older. Again, it was still alive at its discovery, as if by design.

_It was a message._

The Nocturnal that did this was not, and could not, have been a newborn. This attack took restraint; that much he knows from the depth of its bite. Newborn’s have little capacity in the way of self control. They either feed all the way, failing to stop after the victim’s death where the blood quickly turns to poison, making them sick if not killing them outright – or they starve, succumbing to a violent bloodlust that, one way or another, ends in their destruction. It isn’t uncommon for some to burn themselves ‘alive’ when unable to cope with the affects blood depravity brings.

As for Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal left her the bare minimum drifting through her system to keep her alive – but it is no guarantee. If she survives no one will believe of her alleged connection to one of the damned, not now he has all of her research. Should the fates be so kind as to leave her life thread uncut, she would be wise to adhere his parting farewell.

Will faces him with a tired look. This whole time he has been wearing his grey shirt and boxers. Stepping over to fill the space between them he fixes Hannibal’s tie. “It’s not even quarter-past-six and you’re already in a suit…”

“If it displeases you then I don’t have to be.”

“Shut up,” he smirks, “Anyway, thanks for the help. Is it fair of me to assume you’re my own personal physician?”

“It was my field, once upon a time.”

“And now it’s caffeine addicts and dog hoarders…”

Wearily, Hannibal grazes a thumb back and fourth over his cheek, it warms his core when he leans into the touch. Will has been somewhat avoidant of physical intimacy since telling about his father, so he kisses his forehead rather than his lips. He’s satisfied when a hand squeezes his own.

“Listen,” Will says, “I want you to be careful.”

“About?”

“I don’t think it was an animal that got to em’. I heard about these other instances, did some digging, came across a couple articles, it’s possible that some sicko’s mutilating and killing the animals. Have you heard about any of this?”

“Yes, though I was unaware Winston became apart of it.”

“And it’s not just him. Yesterday’s shift Zeller said about his niece's horse getting a chunk bit out of em’ last week. Thing is he said the marks looked more human than beast. After getting him to Matthew Brown, the more I thought about it, so do his.”

“What else did you find?”

“Not much. Just some interviewed farmers complaining over lost produce. Look Han, if someone did this, and did the same to the others, it won’t be long before their design changes into harming another person.”

Mitigated he hasn't read _the_ article Hannibal replies, “I won’t let anything happen to you –”

“Me? I don’t care about me,” he cringes, unintentionally offended, “I didn’t mean it like that. If it’s not an animal then this guy’s clearly working up to something bigger if he hasn’t done it already.”

“Last night you said _‘when you get home’_.”

“Did I?” he softens, “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“I liked how that sounded. You have plenty on your mind already without plaguing yourself with concerns for my well-being. Now, I may live to regret speaking in clichés, but I promise, as long as I am with you, I will always come home, Will.”

“I’ll hold you to that, ‘cause there'd be hell to pay if anyone hurt you or the girls. You think it could be Jon Doe from a few weeks back?”

Hannibal does not deny him an honest answer. Given the posthumous discoveries he has made recently surrounding the Graham’s trauma it is wise to let him consider the stranger a broader threat, even if he gives no other reason aside from; “If we are to suspect a person’s behind these horrific acts, then we shouldn’t rule out the possibility. Should you see him, do tell me.”

“Ditto.”

The topic changes when Will remembers he has work today. Grabbing the thermal mug from the drying wrack he says about perhaps calling someone from the pharmacy to cover, wanting to watch Winston for any flare-ups. Hannibal offers to stay in his stead, assuring he would call Alana if he doesn’t improve.

“What about D.C.?”

“I reopen tomorrow night. It’s not a problem, trust me.”

“I do.” Will smiles.

As he leaves, snow begins to fall.

Hannibal busies his mind through digesting a Leviathan of Du Maurier’s notes spanning across eighteen different journals – the first he picks up is the thickest among them at more than four hundred pages – and that barely scratches the surface; he has tape recorders to listen through also. This will take some time. He never likes to rush what he reads, after all, pacing is everything when scouring for the finest of details. From the specificity of her research, not just on him, but the ever antiquating history of his kind, he praises her dedication.

He imagines her book will be quite the page turner.

Or is it _would have_ been?

Last night marks the first whom he has indulged upon without watching them fade into death’s cold embrace. Imposing ambiguity upon himself is a small price to pay for the abundance of reading material. Perhaps he should have done away with the intimidation, her taste wasn’t rich or invigorating but over saturated. _Spoiled_. Not at all nourishing. She had made efforts to snack on figs, snails and acorns, even the French wine she drank was one he enjoyed. It was clear after the first year she was changing her flavour; but not at his request. Of course, last night wasn’t about her taste, oh no.

It was a reminder that he not be betrayed.

It seems a waste not to have taken a bag or two from the emergency supply she had cached away. That would certainly have eviscerated the horrid aftertaste...

Finishing the current entry he marks the page. Winston is curled up with Cinnamon, having eaten the rest of the chicken. Hannibal takes the bowl into the kitchen where he starts rustling up food for the rest of the dogs. The remainder of the afternoon he spends reading.

***

He’s watching...

He’s watching from the treeline...

Has been for hours now...

From a distance his pinpoint pupils linger at the windows of the white panelled house. A man walks inside it – the one that wears suits – the one like himself. He’s dedicated much into finding others; time’s not even a factor. He once mistook a hallucination of another Vampire during a period of hunger and wound up killing a wandering tourist. All roads since have led to dead ends. Then he found _him_.

This ones fondness towards livestock is… peculiar. He was biting him the night he passed by the windows, he remembers – or did he interrupt before he could? His blood is special, he must know that by now, what other reason does he have to keep the human alive?

_He wants the fisherman’s son to last. A naïve, loyal, inferior mutt to play with between feeds._

_And what good is a pet that bites back?_

He’s been following the pair for weeks. Studying them from afar similar to a birdwatcher. He’s staked out the house and _Crawford’s Pharmacy_. A coffee shop. The one place he hasn’t managed to follow back to is wherever the suited one sleeps – other than here sometimes.

The questions he wants answered haven’t changed, and if this ‘other’ is who he thinks he is, he’ll have them before long. But the anticipation doesn’t end there, no, no. _Soon_ he will finally taste what’s been worth the two year search.

_I didn’t wait this long just to share..._

He has no family anymore. No wife. No daughter. No real home to speak of. When he isn’t finding new prey or stalking his present, he ‘lives’ in an old hunting cabin. There’s little furniture beside what he made when human: a dining table, dresser, a bed without covers, a few chairs with self-made and tanned leather coverings; two of them brutally slashed and clawed in times of anger or thirst. The curtains are mostly shredded, thoughtless of sewing them back together.

To think he used to honour every animal he’d hunt, never wasting an antler, bone or tuft of fur.

As the sky casts a leaden blanket he hides behind a frosting tree. The other Vampire carries on his business. He thinks he’s preparing food, it’s hard to tell with his back turned. It’s – _wrong_ – wrong to see one of his own playing human in this way. He only knows one of their names: Will Jonathan Graham.

As for the other Vampire he looks far stronger than his creator ever had. This one has worked on his physicality; his form is shapely, powerful, confident in all the ways his own is lacking. To fight him directly would be greatly challenging unless having an advantage...

The snow is settled enough to leave boot deep depressions. It cakes his thinned hair and shoulders, his off-colour button shirt damp and ragged where it’s never been ironed. After hours of stillness his neck bones give a crunch from the speed of his head pivoting to the approaching headlights; the snow crumbles from him like a disturbance on a mountain peak before the inevitable avalanche. Blank and focussed he maintains his standing. Silent as death he resembles a hunter, primed to leap at just the right moment, not a second sooner, not a second later. He peers past the trunk.

_It’s Graham..._

_The one that got away..._

Watching from the sidelines as the man gets out the car he doesn’t close the door, leaving it open to take in the surroundings. The snow speckles his dark hair. The glasses he’s wearing flash in the porch light like the glint of a rifle scope. He looks to the window.

His separation offers vulnerability. Rather than prolonging it further it’s gravelly tempting to end him here. It would be so easy if not unsportsmanlike. But now isn't the time. That isn’t why he’s here tonight. If he’s right then his victim’s keeper will be quick to save his pet.

He will need to be faster than that.

Raking his claw-like nails down the bark he springs from his scouting spot. Covered by tree and shadow the soft snow renders his sprint soundless when flanking to the rear; it splashes around his boots. When faced with Will Graham’s back he moves with such velocity that his victim’s own is like that of a sloth in comparison.

A sprig snaps. The human turns but is too late to dodge his lunging grab.

Forcing him to face the house he has a hand clamped around the warm neck; silencing all but dry, fierce grunts while he squirms. It’s impressive the fight he gives: thrashing his legs, desperately clawing to break himself free – and failing beautifully – his face straining and mouth gaping wide. It’s funny to see his pearly teeth and little points of his canines up close. Dragging him back the snow kicks and flies in the struggle, not expecting him to boot the car door shut – a voiceless call for help.

He rumbles a distorted laugh into his ear. Viscously _snaring_ the man’s curls in one hand, he feels nothing as he _slams_ Will Graham’s head onto the roof of the car.

Not once.

But twice.

***

Knowing it to be Will pulling up the drive Hannibal lowers the oven door, taking out a dinner for two. He took the liberty of preparing trout he found in the freezer with a side of vegetables and lemon slices, perfectly timed and hot for his advent. Leaving the pot on a folded kitchen towel he discards the oven mitt beside it.

**_Thud, thud…_ **

His attention snaps to the living room. Something slumps to the ground outside. It sounds dull, _heavy_ , like a…

Charging into the other room he leaps over the dogs that suddenly awake, throwing open the door a gusty chill blows at his face. He recognizes the man fleeing from sight with cowardice joining his run into the thicket. He’s about to give chase when placing the source of the noise, and with it, stirs grim, unpleasant memories buried not near deeply enough within his palace.

His better half, his Will, lies unconscious in the snow.

“No...”

Forgetting to shut the door he runs over to him, he drops to his knees when skidding to a halt. Will is on his front, one arm crooked beside his turned away face, the other closer inline to his ribs. Hannibal is slow to roll him over. Brushing the hair away from his pale face he frames it with gentle hands. To his relief he is still breathing. Wide, bloody lines trickle from the left of his face where the hairline meets his forehead, making half a crimson mess. Changing to a half kneeling position he bundles him into his arms bridal style and rises to his feet. Will’s arm flops to hang at the side, his head thrown back, lips parted, wild curls swaying in the wintry breeze.

Hannibal’s eyes glow red when looking to the treeline. His upper lip twinges as the stranger gives a lopsided grin. Almost prideful. He wants nothing more than to rip his throat out. _Another night. I need to help Will first._ No doubt the stranger knows that he won’t pursue – he skulks away – back into the shadowy veil of the Virginia woods.

A cacophony of barks erupt from the porch as the pack wriggle over each other past the threshold. He commands them back with his celestial stare, irises reddening once more. Whining into submission, all head back inside.

Re-approaching the house the scent of Will’s blood permeates the air.

The seven sit across the room observing and panting. Hannibal eases him down on the bed, supporting his neck as he arranges the pillows to prop him up. Next he strips off his coat. Unbuttoning the flannel shirt he peels it from his skin, the fabric already clinging to him; both are tossed on the floor. He will mind for the lack of etiquette later.

He heads to the bathroom, returning with warm water and the Med-kit. Will’s throat is already red and purpling, bruised by finger marks. For now he condense the resentment. Kneeling beside the bed he takes great care in raising up his arms, turning him on either side. His back is checked last – no bites – not that it works that way – he lays him back again. The bleeding persists when cleaning him up; some of it has trailed and dried on the shell of his ear, his hair... The bowl of water turns pink with every dunk and twist of the staining wash cloth.

“If you can hear me, you’re going to be alright. You have no idea how sorry I am for letting this happen, but you’re safe now.”

‘Safe’ entirely depends on ones definition of the word... He doesn’t stir. Hannibal finishes wiping away the mess. Getting up to find a change of clothes he swipes the ones left on the floor, putting them on a chair. Selecting an olive Henley from the dresser he turns when hearing a groan.

Will is waking up. He starts coughing, finding his throat he groans in pain.

“Easy, Will, easy,” Hannibal says, grabbing his shoulders to help him sit up, “don’t move so fast, you may have a concussion.”

He can’t sputter a single word, he tries but his coughing doesn't let up.

“Now isn’t the time to talk, rest for a moment, catch your breath.”

Will rubs a gingerly hand over the bruises, wincing, he regrets it instantly. Hell, it burns too. Everything aches from the chest up, his throbbing head is full of razor blades with the room spinning in some parts. Han stops him from touching the source. When his vision clears, the look on his face brings both comfort and bitterness: recognizing it as pity. Against the baristo’s requests it takes everything he has to speak, “ _Where… did..._ ”

“He’s gone. When I went outside he ran into the woods. Here, take these –”

“I’m fine...” he rasps.

“Will,”

“ _I said I’m fine._ ” Han’s eyes drop to it his neck. “What?”

“Would you at least take them for me?”

Will relents, opening up his hand. Struggling to down the painkillers they kick in fifteen minutes later. Getting into the shirt he’s asked what happened. Scratchy, he says; “No-one was around when I pulled up. I got out, about to lock up and I heard something, someone rushing me from behind. When I tried looking back that’s when a hand locked around my neck – next thing I knew my back was against him and he was... he was choking me. I think I saw you walking for the kitchen, I’m not sure.” he clears his throat with a flinch, “ _Ouch_ … after that I remember trying to get your attention. That’s when he threw me against the car, then everything cut to black.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Will nods. “It was him. I saw em’ just for a second, but it was him.”

The wound doesn’t stop bleeding.

Hannibal sets Will up on the edge of the bed to give him stitches, pulling out a footstool from underneath to seat himself on. Med-kit on the floor neither speak when he dabs at the leakage. Will isn’t looking at him, rather off to the side. His head is tilted up by his chin.

“Why are you with me?” Will asks; unable to take the awkwardness any more.

“If that’s your idea of a joke –”

“It’s not. _Ah –_ ”

“Sorry, I’ll be more careful.” He threads the curved needle, “But, I don’t think I need to tell you this is going to hurt. How do you feel, Will?”

“Don’t dodge the question by asking one back.”

Hannibal leans forward, threading the first stitch through. “Do you truly feel so burdened that you need me to justify my feelings for you?”

Will winces, his fingers digging into the curve of the mattress. “You’ve gone out of your way for me from the very start. Even when I don’t deserve it,” Han tries to cut in but he doesn’t want to hear it, “you support me, tolerate me, cook fancy meals I never cared about until you made them, hell, you patch up my _wounds_ for Christ’s sake... you... you _take care of me_.” he says that last part near breathlessly. Another few stitches. “What do I give you, huh? If you’ve got it all figured out, what do I _possibly_ give you that makes all this worth the hassle?”

“That isn’t fair, Will. Trust me when I tell you, I am not as composed as you may think.”

“I mean I suspect that since you take on my baggage pretty well – why haven’t you told me yours?”

The needle stops before it can pierce the inflamed skin again. A fragile tension lingers from Hannibal’s sudden inaction. Entirely quiet and, to Will, concerning. “I like to think you’re open and honest with me on everything else, at least.”

Hannibal makes the final stitch. _You would resent me if I were_. Snipping the end with scissors he packs the equipment into the kit, closing the lid it’s left where it is. Unable to meet Will’s face he merely sits there; contemplating.

Met without an answer Will reaches to take his hand. The corners of Han’s lips don’t form a smile; they force one. He knows the difference. Both talk in low tones as if nothing else in this moment exists in their worlds.

“I can feel it, y’know,” Will says, “I can _see_ it. You hide it better than anyone I’ve met; but I just know that somewhere, no matter how practised you are at pretending, you’re hurting, too… an’ honestly, knowing that hurts more than my face and throat.”

 _It’s nice to be seen._ He takes a breath. “Would you accept that my ‘baggage’ is different, yet every bit as heavy?”

“Then why not let me try to make it lighter?”

“Because you can’t. Nor can anyone else. My past is not a happy place, Will. It is the one place within my memory palace I do not care to visit. Despite all I have learnt of the world’s cruelty, of it’s irony, neither you or I can change the past no matter how much we may want to.” He strokes his knuckles, “Sometimes… all you can do is let it rest with the knowledge what was lost shall never come back.”

Will doesn’t know how to respond.

“It matters little anymore.”

“Of _course_ it matters.” Will reasons, “Whatever it is, whatever you’ve had to go through, or _are_ going through, I’m here for you, too.”

He considers this carefully, “The way you would look at me if you knew… it wouldn’t be the same.”

Hannibal studies the frowning face of his wolf-lamb. This wondrous creature – this younger, flawed, _complicated_ thing – this human man he holds so dearly – Will has no idea he could crush him in an instant. The beginnings of a headache have him tired. Allowing his beloved to slink down and kneel between his legs, a different hand comes to cover a heart that should no longer beat, but through decades of practice, makes it so.

“You _can trust me_ , Hannibal. I want you to feel you can trust me.”

With such brutal sincerity in his Sapphire eyes, Hannibal wishes the same. “What would you like to know?”

“What part do you want me to know?”

He inhales deeply through his nose, “Alright then.” Covering Will’s hand with his own he threads their fingers. “The story I am about to tell you, I have only told twice – I do not like to tell it. And I would appreciate that you merely listen, not ask questions, at least until I finish. Do you understand?”

Nodding twice, Hannibal dips to kiss his fingers.

“When I was a child I had a sister, Mischa, who was as kind as she was precious. She was full of so much light that it would burst from her smile. We were raised by our parents, tutor uncle, and a few staff. I suppose you could say we were home schooled.

“When I was eight my family and I were caught in the middle of a war. We fled to the family lodge, but to make matters worse we suffered a snowstorm, the worst in years. It was a short time before the food ran out. Then soldiers came... our parents hid Mischa and I, our mother telling us to stay quiet, and under no circumstances should we come out.” Will is keeping to his word, listening intently. “That’s when the shooting started – I covered her eyes, but I saw everything. They killed them all. The staff. Our uncle. My mother died in front of me, quickly followed by my father.

“Mischa tried to pry my hands away, asking for our parents,” his tone shifts into melancholy, “Desperate to comfort her I did the only thing my young mind thought to do: I lied. _‘Everything is alright, sister. Mother and father will be back soon.’_ I told her. My lie didn't last. The soldiers found us after two days. I will spare you the uglier details of what we endured. Any last hope I had was squandered when they... when having torn her away from me –”

Even in their most intimate of moments, Will’s never seen him so... _vulnerable_. Though blank of face Han closes his eyes, inadvertently shutting him out. He’s been given hints towards his past, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Instinctively, and without realizing, he reaches up to thumb away a tear – no – _tears_. He's never cried in front of him before. Reacting with the tiniest of shudders, Han breaks from his momentary trance. Seconds pass before he carries on the tale.

“In short, they killed her, too. I managed to escape, later forging a new life after I –” he catches himself; almost letting it slip of what became of the men. Will looks as if about to ask but closes his mouth. He jumps ahead, “I moved to France desiring to reconnect with family. By age eighteen I trained to become a surgeon, later inheriting the family home on my aunt’s side, unconcerned with what the fates had predetermined for me. Then that’s when I met my wife... Leva.” Sombre he says, “Her name was Leva.”

“Was?”

“She’s dead.”

Will’s gaze doesn’t budge as the weight in his chest adds on another. He kneels upward to pull Han’s face into his shoulder, ignoring the pain there. Pressing his cheek over his he strokes the back of his honey head. “I’m sorry, Han, I – I didn’t – I don’t know what to say.” Arms squeeze around him. “Wait here, I’m gonna get you something to –”

Hannibal doesn’t let go. “ _Stay,_ ” he whispers in his ear, “Just stay with me, Will.”

He does. Neither man knows how long they stay that way – time seemingly stops for them – no more words need be exchanged.

Eventually, they find their way to bed.

At 4am Hannibal stirs from sleep, easily slipping out of bed without disturbing Will. His headache has grown brutal as the night’s progressed with white hot stabs skewing the confines of his skull. Sticking two fingers into his neck, his pulse is weak – he shall have to feed sooner than expected. An ‘insurance policy’ is also stored in the hidden compartment of his car, if he is fast he can retrieve it; not desiring to leave the house unprotected in the absence of sunlight.

At the door he stops short of lowering the handle, detecting a distant odour of blood. Guarded, he opens it, discovering the stranger under the garden tree.

Closing up behind him he descends the porch steps. They stand roughly 10ft away. Hannibal knows that if the man wanted to he could have killed Will. So why didn’t he? It must be to taunt him. A power play. A challenge against one of his own. Or maybe, he wanted to talk, using threats against Will to prevent him from acting too hastily. A grave miscalculation on his part.

Despite this, clearly, it has worked.

“Hello again,” Hannibal says, the embodiment of calm, “You have my attention. Tell me what you seek and maybe I can help. Preferably _without_ violence.”

“Maybe. Why… do you protect him?” his speech is drawn out, “Does he know?”

“You asked that the first time.”

“Does he know _now?_ ”

“Is that your goal, here? To have me expose what I am?”

“He’ll find out eventually.”

“My patience with your little game is wearing thin.” Hannibal steps forward, “Quid-pro-quo. I tell you things, you tell me things.”

The stranger nods once. “What happened to us? Where are the others?”

“Very well. The scholars would have you believe our kind birthed itself anew from the ashes of myth in the second world war; this is untrue. The first to be seen were decades earlier; progression just wasn’t as rampant as it later became. Known to many as The Resurgence, we thrived for the better part of twenty years.” Hannibal licks his lips. “Come 1987, 1990 to be sure, the few Vampires bearing the knowledge of how to create more where hunted down: ending the next generation of newborns in its wake. What became of the one who made you?”

“I killed him as he asked.”

“When were you made?”

“A few years ago. I was tracking elk in Minnesota when he got me.”

“Hmm. And your business with this human?”

He tuts. “My turn. When are you going to change him?”

“What makes you think I know how?”

“Because I think you’re _him_.”

Hannibal cants his head expectantly.

“My maker told of a human single handedly killing a crew of ex-soldiers in that war; the units leader was one of us. He said the one that did it was made later, that he’d be older in appearance, attempting to blend with other humans. Would that be you?”

“I’ve been assured I don’t look that old, and as far as you are concerned I cannot make more."

"Shame. And the story?"

"That's all true." he pauses, "I destroyed Vladis Grutas.”

“And now you’re here. How… disappointing.” the stranger flatly mocks.

“I know you killed Jonathan Graham. So why return for his son? He wasn’t present at the time, therefore not a witness.”

“He was supposed to be there… I’d watched them for days. The fisherman’s blood tasted different. It was… unique and delectable. When I finally re-caught his scent, I wanted _more_.”

“Then I’m afraid you will leave hungry.” Hannibal draws nearer when a grim shadow casts over the Nocturnal’s face, uncertain of what he might do. “Any more questions?”

Snarling he says, “If you don’t drain him then I will – I’ll make it _hurt_ – and you’ll be watching when I do. It’ll be a waste of such a meal to rush.”

“You know what I’ve done, yet here you are trying to force my hand.” Hannibal remains stoic, yet his tone says it all; “Should you try, especially after tonight, I will tear you apart. You will depart this world in your own blackened blood and regret, and like others before you and the ones who may come after, you will wish you had never crossed me.”

If it wasn’t for the fact Hannibal is weaker when deprived of blood he would take him on where they stand. His usual strength allows for effortlessly breaking through brick and ripping car doors from their hinges. If they clashed right now, he may win, but loosing is a risk he cannot afford.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with Will this close.

Otherwise... he is as good as dead.

“Waste my words and I will destroy you.” he warns, “This is the one courtesy I am willing to give. I recommend you take it. Unless, that is, you are feeling confident?”

“I like playing with my food – the way you play with yours makes you weak.”

Hannibal follows a few steps after the stranger as he backs away – short and lazy treads – never breaking his sickly stare. “One last thing before you go,”

“Hmm.”

“Your name. Vampire or not, many people have one.”

"Fine." He turns away, “Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!  
> It’s been interesting to explore the change in writing style when diving into these multi-POV chapters; thanks for reading!
> 
> BTW Regarding Ethereal's Lore: Although I've altered aspects of Lecter's origins from Hannibal Rising (novel version) 'Ethereal' IS a mix of the Thomas Harris books and tv-series combined; it's been fun dissecting both mediums to create this story so far, incorporating Easter Eggs from the books especially XD


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